


Your Song

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Dubious Consent, M/M, john is a doctor, sherlock is a rent boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson stumbles upon the owners of the Moulin Rouge, the most expensive all-male strip club in London. While visiting the Moulin Rouge, he stumbles across a man who can never be his, no matter how much he wishes differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Moulin Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> My love for Johnlock and my love for Moulin Rouge have come together to create this. Its a bit modernized and altered from the story we know quite well, but follows the storyline of Moulin Rouge! I hope you all enjoy instead of hating it! I obviously do not own Sherlock or Moulin Rouge. Also, the dub-con is for later on and is involved in the Jim/Sherlock bits which is also where the violence is. All warnings will be in place before they happen. Nothing in this chapter I promise!

John had moved to London after getting out of the service, needing the busy city to keep him happy. He bought a cheap flat that he paid on by working at the hospital. John was a respectable person, a soldier and a doctor and a good friend to Molly Hooper whom he worked with. On the weekends he went out to the pub with a few of his mates from the service and they tried their damnedest to forget the things they had seen.

That's how it all started really, a mundane life in a boring world of black and white. But then one day it all changed. John loved Baker Street, the coziness he felt in it. He was sitting in his favorite chair reading a novel when he heard a large vehicle pull in across the street. He looked out the window and saw two men pulling their belongings out of a moving truck, aided by the help of the driver. John watched as the trio carried in a softly worn leather couch, a few lamps a, a queen sized bed that took all three of them to carry in and assorted odds and ends. When the truck finally left three hours later, John watched with a small smile on his face as the two men linked hands and shared a small kiss before heading into their new flat.

* * *

John didn't meet the men until a week later, when he happened to drop a grocery bag while trying to open the door to his flat. "Here, let me help you with that," a soft voice spoke in his ear. John turned to find one of the men from across the street smiling at him.

"Thanks," John smiled, handing the man one of the bags. "I'm John Watson."

"Marcus James, my husband Christopher and I have been meaning to come over and introduce ourselves but life's pretty hectic you know?"

"Yeah, say you wanna come in for a minute?" John had finally gotten the door unlocked and was walking towards the stairs.

"Why not, I have a little while. Do you have tea? I keep forgetting we ran out the other day."

"Yeah, I'll put the kettle on. So Marcus, what is it you do?"

Marcus sat in a chair, staring into the wall. "It's kind of embarrassing actually, Christopher and I are usually quiet about it, but you seem to be pretty open. Christopher and I, well, we own a strip club."

John gave a small laugh as he put up the last of the groceries. "No offense mate, but a gay couple running a strip club seems a little ironic to me."

"How so? Women like to watch men undress just as much as men like to watch other men undress. All strip bars aren't naked women you know."

John blushed, embarrassed that he had jumped to conclusions. "Right, sorry I didn't mean anything by it."

"Quite alright John," Marcus assured, picking up a picture of Molly and John together at a Christmas party. "This your girlfriend?"

"Oh, no, no she's just a colleague; we work together at Saint Bart's."

"Oh, too bad, she's pretty though, have you ever thought about asking her out?"

John studied the man as he handed him a mug of tea. "No, she's, erm, not my type if you follow me."

Marcus raised an eyebrow as everything clicked into place. "Oh, sorry mate, I didn't realize you fancied men. Just trying to be polite and all."

"No it's alright, I just usually don't broadcast it, and I'm a bit married to my work it seems."

"I understand. Well, look, I would like to invite you to our club sometime, check out the entertainment if you'd like. And before you say anything," Marcus added quickly, seeing the look on John's face, "we aren't a seedy establishment. We operate in a clean area of town and we have reputable businessmen and lawyers, even people who work for the Crown come in, it's a type of, you don't say anything, we won't say anything environment. Other than the show, we also have rent boys for a lack of a better word. You never know John; it might just be your cuppa."

John stared at this man, a man he barely knew, who was inviting him to come to his privately run gentlemen's club. Today had definitely taken a turn for the weird. "Um, while that's a nice offer, I think I might pass."

"Well, that's too bad," Marcus said, standing from his chair, "but here's my card if you change your mind. There's a pretty hefty fee to get in due to the people we host, but just show this card to the bouncer at the door and he'll let you in no charge. It's been nice talking to you John, I hope to see you there sometime and I'll be sure to tell Christopher to come introduce himself at some point in time."

"Right, well I'll show you out."

"No need, I know how to work a door John, have a good day."

* * *

John watched as Marcus left, a strange feeling settling around him. He flipped the card over and read "Moulin Rouge Gentlemen's Club for reservations contact Marcus James". There was a small insignia in red at the bottom of the card. Overall John found it intriguing. Why would the owners of a well-to-do gentlemen's club live in a small flat on Baker Street? Moreover John found himself strangely attracted to the idea of checking the place out. Rubbing shoulders with the most powerful and possibly dangerous men in London, well that could always prove to be a good time in and of itself.

The only problem though is that John had no idea how to find the place. So he did what he knew best, he opened his laptop and searched for it on the internet. John found their website easily, a scarlet windmill served as the backdrop of the website and if one stumbled upon it they would possibly have no idea what the website served. In fact, John thought he was in the wrong place until he saw the small insignia in the corner that matched the one on the business card Marcus had given him.

John clicked on it and it led him to another page, similar to the first that listed a few prices for things only listed by numbers and John's eyes widened at the pounds each item cost. Underneath the list of prices was a simple bit of text. 'Reservations only. Contact Marcus or Christopher James.'

Well that led him nowhere except to understand that Moulin Rouge really was for the well-to-do. The cover price itself started out at £50 and went from there.

* * *

John sat in his chair, trying to pull up the courage to ask Marcus where the club was when his phone rang. "Hello?"

"John, it's Harry, I just wanted to check in with you."

"Harriet?" John was surprised that his sister was calling. "I'm fine, is everything okay on your end?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that Clara and I are getting back together, I've stopped drinking John, been sober for a month now."

"That's great Harry! I'm really proud of you and you know I love Clara, tell her I say hello when you see her will you?"

"Of course John, though you could come around sometime and tell her that yourself."

"I know, I need to and I'm sorry for not doing it sooner. Say Harry, you wouldn't happen to know where the Moulin Rouge is located do you?" John knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway.

"Actually yeah, but only because Clara's boss is a regular member there. Shite, I shouldn't have told you that. You can't say anything John, please or Clara would lose her job!"

"Harry, I swear, but where is it? I've sort of been invited."

"You were invited to Moulin Rouge? Wow that's pretty awesome, hope your tux still fits."

"My tux? Why?"

"John, this is where the  _rich_ people go. No offense, but can you even afford the cover price to get in?"

"Actually Harry, this is the funny part, I get in free of charge. I met the owner today; he helped me with my groceries."

"You've met Mr. James?"

"Yep, and he gave me his business card so I can get in for free."

"I swear John you are the luckiest bastard I know."

"Harry! Language."

"Sorry John, but still, that's pretty amazing. Anyway, you know the old business district? Like where all the abandoned warehouses are?"

"Yeah, why?"

"They aren't really abandoned. A couple of them are used as garages for the valet service and the others are the club. Now I know it seems seedy, but the warehouses just look bad on the outside. Clara said her boss said there's velvet and gold all over the place in there, you'd think you were in a mansion. And he would know. Now, there's one that has this red windmill on it, that's the one you park in front of. You're going to walk into the door on the front of it and either pay, or in your case, show the card to the bouncer. The valet will take your car to a garage and from there on it's all up to you."

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you know all this? I mean, you haven't been there have you?"

"Um, no. Naked men aren't really my thing John. No, you know Clara's boss, Mr. Flint, the bank manager? He told her about it. He figures she'll never spill his secrets because she values her job and reputation too much."

"Huh. Well, thanks Harry. I'll talk to you later, and who knows, maybe I'll be coming over to thank you and Clara in a day or two."

"One last thing John. Be careful."

"How do you mean?"

"There are these two men, Moriarty and Mycroft. They're archenemies I hear and they'll crush anyone that gets in their way. Apparently they're always trying to one up each other but it's hard when one's a criminal mastermind and the other is basically the British Government. But last I heard, Mycroft's brother is Moriaty's favorite rent boy and Mycroft has no idea because Moriarty is the only one allowed to see him. Just promise me you'll stay out of trouble."

"I promise Harry. But you know, telling your boss' secrets to your brother isn't the wisest thing you know."

"Mycroft won't know John; my cell is the only thing he doesn't bug these days. Be careful and let me know if you find your soul mate!"

"At a gentlemen's club? Only you Harry."

"Bye John."

"Bye Harry."

John hung up the phone, head reeling from the information Harry had just given him. He never understood half of what Harry meant because really, she couldn't tell much about her job except that she was one of two secretaries in Mycroft Holmes' office. That line of work was what had led her to the alcohol. Not being able to cope with all the things she had seen, the secrets she had to keep from Clara, they'd finally taken a toll on his sister and she had cracked. Mycroft had been good to her though, paid for therapy and rehab and John was glad to hear that she was doing better.

John checked his watch, five minutes after six, and decided to eat, shower and then dig out his tux from the back of his closet.

* * *

John stood in front of the mirror fixing his bowtie one final time before grabbing his keys and heading for his car. His job paid well and John was eternally grateful right now that he had decided to splurge a little on his car and had bought a new one this year. He slid gracefully into the driver's seat and turned the ignition before glancing over at the James' flat. The windows were dark and John was glad they must already be at the club and didn't see him leaving. He wasn't sure why exactly he was going, but he wasn't looking back now.

John arrived out front of the warehouse Harry had specified and laughed uncomfortably at the way his hands shook lightly. He took a steadying breath and opened the door, climbing out of it and watched as a boy dressed in red came towards his from a door in the side of the warehouse. "Hello sir, I take it you're a guest at the Moulin Rouge?"

"Yes, I am, Kevin," John answered, peering at the nametag the boy wore.

"Right, should I put you near the front or are you planning to stay a while?"

John thought that was a bit odd of a question, but found himself answering anyway. "I might end up staying a while; it's my first time here."

The boy grinned at John, "oh, well then I'll put you father back, you'll love it sir, there's definitely something we have that you'll enjoy." With that the boy plucked the key from John's hand and started the car, pulling away from the curb before John even had a chance to speak.

John walked up to the foreboding red door, giving himself one last chance to back out, instead steeled himself and opened the door. It was time to be adventurous again.

The first thing John was met with was a short queue of men dressed impeccably and John, even in his tuxedo felt slightly underdressed. The man he queued behind John was pretty sure worked in Scotland Yard. "First time here?" a voice purred in John's ear. "I haven't seen you around before."

"Yeah, I just found about it today," John answered, turning around to face, oh shit, Harry's boss Mycroft. Of all the people to run into, John thought. "Do you come here often?"

"Ah, yes," Mycroft smiled and John thought automatically of a shark. "I meet a friend here quite often."

"Oh," was all John could think to say before the queue began moving and John pressed forwards, coming face to face with a large man that he recognized to be a bouncer.

"Cover charge?" he asked gruffly, eyeing John. John flipped the card out of his wallet and showed it to the bodyguard who nodded curtly towards the door in front of John before turning to Mycroft and greeting the man.

John headed through the door and was met with flashing lights and loud music, and even more queues. There were doors spread out through the place, signs above them explaining in proper terms the type of entertainment that each led to. There were rooms for almost every type of kink and John was just a little bit lost.

Suddenly he felt a hand grasp his arm and he turned to find Mycroft standing there, glass of champagne in his free hand and a man hanging on his other arm. "Hello again John. I saw you had Mr. James' business card, so therefore you know him, I was wondering how that was. You're a doctor by trade aren't you?"

John stared dumbstruck at Mycroft momentarily before remembering something Harry had told him once about Mycroft knowing almost everything about everyone. "Well yes, but the James' are my neighbors of sorts. They live across the street from me."

"Ah so you're the man from Baker Street they were telling me about. Yes good, let me introduce you to my dear friend Greg Lestrade."

"That's Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft," Greg grinned as he shook John's hand. "Nice to meet you John, enjoying yourself?"

How did John even begin to answer that? Mycroft spoke up once again, saving John from having to answer. "Greg, let the old boy have some fun first. John, since it's your first time here I'd either suggest staying for the floor show or getting a private room. I'd save the kink rooms for a different day."

"Right," John said, suddenly blushing. "Well I'll see you two around then, better be going off."

Mycroft and Greg bid John a good night and set off for one of the queues on the other side of the room.

John found the queue for private rooms to be much shorter than he anticipated. Upon entering the queue, a pamphlet was handed to him that explained the prices of each 'entertainer' and what each price bought you. Suddenly John was unsure of everything. Why was he here? What was he doing? Was this even right, men selling their bodies for other men's enjoyment? But suddenly John was being pressed for money and he decided that he would at least pay for the best he could get and reached for his wallet to pull out the £150 to pay the attendant. Suddenly a man swooped down on him, plucking the money from John's hand and shoving it back in his wallet. Marcus James was standing there and began to explain to John and the attendant that John was a special guest and needed to not pay for anything, but that the club would cover his expenses. John tried to argue, but was appreciative that he didn't have to spend the money. "Give him room thirteen George," John heard Marcus tell the attendant and was confused when George opened his mouth to say something, obviously confused. "Room thirteen George," Marcus cut off, walking away before the man could question him.

"Down the hall, last room to the left Mr. Watson," George pointed, smiling at John who walked through with a sense of foreboding weighing on him. What or who, he should say, was waiting behind the door for him


	2. Room Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to post a trigger warning for this chapter because there are brief mentions of abuse and drug use.ALSO: there is a bit of smut (but not really) in this chapter, I would rate it a T at most because this wasn't the place for anything explicit yet.

John slowly pushed open the door to room thirteen, not sure what exactly he would find there. Whatever fleeting expectations he had though were quickly pushed away as the room came into view. A king sized bed sat in the middle of the room, crimson sheets stretched across the mattress, looking soft and inviting. There was an ornate lamp sitting at the bedside on a small table that matched the gilded sconces on the wall. The carpet was thick and the ebony color blended well with the oak frame of the bed.

John registered the sound of water running in what he guessed to be the bathroom as he slowly swung the door shut behind him. "I'll be out in a moment," a deep voice sounded through the door.

John sat on the bed, fiddling his thumbs and growing more nervous by the second. Suddenly the bathroom door swung open and the voice from earlier spoke again. "Very sorry to keep you waiting, how would you like me ton- you aren't Jim."

John turned to face the man who was merely wearing pants and John couldn't help but to take in the body in front of him. "No," he answered finally, remembering the man's statement, "I'm John Watson Mr. James sent me to this room."

The statement seemed to cause the man to pause before he was moving towards John. "He wouldn't do that unless...Jim cancelled for the night, he wouldn't put you at risk."

"At risk for what?" John's nervousness was growing and he disliked the situation as each second ticked on.

"The man who usually has this room has it reserved for every night. He's a man you wouldn't want to cross, which means he must have cancelled else you wouldn't be here. Mr. James takes care of his patrons. But why you?" with that the man began to pace, staring at John oddly.

"Who are you?" John finally asked.

"Sherlock Holmes, at your service, apparently figuratively and literally."

John looked at Sherlock, processing the fact that Mycroft's brother and Moriarty's play thing was apparently his for the evening. Wasn't that just grand? "Right. Well no offence, but maybe I should go, wouldn't want Jim to get upset."

Sherlock rounded on John, eyes locking. "No, please stay, you seem...kind. You don't act like you belong here. It's refreshing."

John really looked at Sherlock and almost gasped at what he saw. Fading bruises covered parts of his body and his eyes were tired, like those of some of his friends from the war. They were eyes that had seen too much too early. John felt bad for the man, knowing the weight a look like that carried.

"Do you mind if I smoked?" Sherlock asked, grabbing a pack of fags from the bedside table.

"No, go right ahead." John watched as he lit one, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling away from his face in delicate tendrils.

"It's a horrible habit, I know. But it's better than what I used to use to take the edge off."

John opened his mouth to ask what that was, but didn't want to overstep his boundaries. Instead, he found "I'm sorry," leaving his mouth.

"Quite alright, you've done nothing to warrant an apology." Sherlock pressed the finished fag into an ashtray and moved to sit next to John on the bed. "Anyway, enough about me, I'm here for your pleasure so what will it be?"

John was taken aback by the nonchalant way Sherlock approached the business. "We, I mean, I don't even know why I'm here," John stuttered, trying to find the words to explain what he was thinking.

Sherlock laid a hand on John's knee, smiling faintly. "You're acting like a school boy and you're an adult!"

John stilled, quieting his thoughts before trying again. "The real problem here is that I'm not sure I feel right about this."

Sherlock smiled slightly, "you're not like most people." Suddenly Sherlock laughed, turning to face John. "What did you say your name was? I can't tell you your own name and yet here I am making character references."

"John Watson, my name is John Watson."

"Well John, it's nice to meet and like I said, you're different than most men."

"How so?" John queried.

"John, most men come here looking for one thing and when I presented to you, you couldn't stomach the idea of what you thought to be taking advantage of me."

John looked at Sherlock wide-eyed. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I read people. Sitting here all day isn't exactly what I do. I also help the Yard out occasionally."

"No offence, but how exactly does a rent boy work with Scotland Yard?"

"My brother Mycroft is dating a detective inspector, his words not mine, and they often bring cases to me for my opinion. I look over the files and make simple deductions based on the information given."

"You are full of surprises," John declared.

"You don't know the half of it."

"I think I'd like to." The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them, but they were true. He was intrigued by the man and he'd only been with him for about ten minutes. Sherlock had to be the single most interesting person John had ever met.

"I'm sorry John, I can't. I'm basically owned; tonight might be the only time you'll ever have to know me." Sherlock stood and began pacing, almost needing John to understand what he wanted.

The double meaning of the words didn't miss John and he was torn between the options before him. He could take Sherlock, have him for one night and ever look back. Or, on the other hand, he could walk away now, not taste when he could have and never see again and walk away from all possible actions with someone that wasn't his.

Sherlock could see every thought John was having pass through as flecks of emotion on John's face. He felt for the man, he wished he wasn't owned by Jim, he wished he was free to be with whom he chose. He wished he could be with the man in front of him, the first person to show him compassion in a long time. He wanted to open up to John about the abuse, about the drugs, about the way that Lestrade and Mycroft had found him huddled in his flat, surrounded by used needles. He wanted to let everything out to John, because he knew that John would accept him, open his arms in compassion. But he couldn't. He didn't know why Marcus had sent John down the hallway, Jim never cancelled, but yet, here John was, a small flicker of light in the infinitely dark tomb that was his life.

"I don't want you to do something you'll regret." John's voice broke through the noise in Sherlock's head and the words threatened to break the resolve Sherlock had built in himself.

"Trust me, it wouldn't be the first time, but I feel like I wouldn't regret this. Trust me."

John looked into Sherlock's clear blue eyes, finding truth and a glimmer of hope there and he made up his mind. Damn him to hell for his actions, but he would never forgive himself if he didn't take this chance. "I'm not leaving, not yet. So if you're really fine with this, so am I."

Sherlock smiled, almost a smirk, as he crossed to where John sat. "Well then John Watson, let's begin shall we?"

Suddenly John's nerves were back and it was with slightly shaking hands that he began to unbutton his jacket. Sherlock's hands closed over his and John could feel heat radiating off them. "Let me get that for you John." Sherlock's fingers deftly unbuttoned the jacket before sliding it off John's shoulders and tossing it towards the chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock tugged John's shirt from out of his trousers and started working on the buttons to it.

John moved his hands to Sherlock's waist, running a hand across the soft flesh, taking care to not press too hard on the bruises. Sherlock took in a sharp breath at the touch, the soft caress not being anything like the hard grabs he was used to. He rid John of the shirt and pressed a chaste kiss to John's neck before slowing and pulling away slightly. "You're sure you want this?" Sherlock asked, searching John's eyes for a sign that how was uncomfortable.

"God yes Sherlock," John responded, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. He cupped a hand into the soft curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, tugging softly and eliciting a moan from the taller man. Sherlock scrabbled with John's zip, needing John's trousers off, needing to be as close to John as he could because John meant freedom, meant everything Sherlock could never have.

John toed off his shoes so that he could kick off his trousers, not caring the state they would be in later. He needed more of Sherlock, more of the man he could never have, he needed whatever Sherlock could give him.

Sherlock pushed John to the bed, allowing himself to take in every bit of the man below him, from the color of his irises when he was aroused, to the freckle that found its home on John's left thigh. Every bit of John was going to be categorized and compartmentalized in Sherlock's mind palace so that he could go back there whenever he felt like he was falling into the black abyss.

From there pants joined the pile of clothes on the floor and the two men joined, lost in the moment and each other, not caring about anything other than their little space in the world. John took care of Sherlock, allowed him pleasure instead of making him give it all. They each gave as much as they took; melding together in a way two people should when they find someone akin to their soul mate. Unfortunately, that couldn't last forever.

As they both rode the height of their orgasms down, Sherlock knew he would return to this memory forever. John Watson had left an impression on his life and he didn't know how to continue on the way he had before, John-less and chained to another person. It wasn't the being chained, per se, but whom he was chained to. Jim Moriarty was one of the most evil men society had ever seen and Sherlock was at his mercy.

Next to Sherlock and his troubling thoughts, John was trying to figure out how to carry on, to leave and pretend that there was nothing between them, no bond that had just been made. He didn't regret it, he knew that instinctively, but what would he do in the days to come? Show up every night in hopes that Jim wasn't here, that he'd get the chance to spend another night with Sherlock? What kind of life was that?

Suddenly their thoughts were broken by the shrill ringing of John's cell. He rummaged through his trousers, still naked, and answered it. "Hello?"

"John, it's Marcus. You need to get out of Sherlock's room and fast. Moriarty just arrived." The line disconnected and John stood there dumbstruck, staring at his phone.

"I take it that's your cue to leave. John, you need to get dressed now. I'll take care of getting everything back to Jim's expectations. Please, go."

John stood there, torn by emotions, wanting to tell Sherlock to come with him and getting the hell out of the way of Moriarty's grasp.

"John, get dressed. I can't come with you. I've made my choices, go before he finds you. Please, for me, go."

John dressed quickly at Sherlock's urging, his heart hammering in his chest. "Sherlock, I," he stammered, not knowing what to really say. "You changed me and dammit I'm going to fight for you."

"Don't. I'm not worth it. Jim has the power to make your life a living hell or worse kill you. I don't want to be the cause of that."

"Your life is a living hell! You let him use you, let him hurt you! And for what? His sick sadistic pleasure?"

"John, my life is of no importance. It is better this way. Now leave and if you know what's good for you, don't come back."

John crossed to Sherlock, kissing him hard enough that he would remember it and turned towards the door. He exited into the hallway, rushing towards the main room, needing to get out and get fresh air. He passed Mycroft and thought to stop and strangle the man for letting his brother sit there in that sadistic cage, but stopped short when he remembered Mycroft had no idea what hid behind door number thirteen. In fact, John wasn't sure if anyone other than he, Moriarty, and the James' really knew what hid behind that door.

* * *

John returned to Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning, physically and mentally exhausted. He dragged his body up the stairs to his bed, collapsing on it and falling asleep. He'd deal with the ramifications of his actions in the morning, for now he just needed sleep. As he drifted off, he faintly dreamt of red windmills and a man chained away in a cell, tortured eyes staring out at John as he stood hopelessly by, shackled to a wall of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, yes?


	3. Consequences and Unexpected Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for abuse and drug use references.

Sherlock heard the footsteps pause outside the door and waited with baited breath for the door to open. He was sprawled on the bed, fresh pair of pants, lazing around for Jim to come. He had cleaned up rather quickly and made the bed, not a single wrinkle in the sheets. He was terrified though. Had it been him he would have picked up on all the subtle hints of someone that had just been intimate with another person. He had forced his heartbeat to return to normal, his eyes had returned to their normal state and his hair was perfectly mussed.

The door creaked open and Jim walked smiling through it. "Good evening, sorry daddy's late. Important business I had to attend to. I hope you didn't think I forgot you."

"Of course not," Sherlock drawled, approaching the conversation as he usually did, making sure Jim would find nothing awry. "I was merely waiting here for you as usual."

"Good." Suddenly Jim's head snapped to the side as he began to sniff at the air. "Sherlock," he began, grating his teeth, "have you been smoking?" Jim looked at Sherlock crossly, eyebrow rising slightly and anger bubbling in his chest. "No need to lie, I smell the smoke. Where are the fags, give them to me now."

Sherlock stood from the bed and felt around in a drawer for where he had hidden the pack. He handed them to Jim silently; eyes cast downward, waiting for his punishment to be dealt. A slap stung the side of his face as Jim hit him, pushing him towards the bed.

"We have rules Sherlock. This is a minor misdemeanor in our book, if I find you've been even worse, the punishment won't be nearly as light." He sent a blow to Sherlock's side, next to a bruise that was just fading. Sherlock held his breath, bracing himself for the next one. When it didn't come, Sherlock dared to open his eyes but wished he had kept them shut. The look on Jim's face was murderous, worse than anything Sherlock had seen from the man before. Suddenly Sherlock was afraid for his life.

"What the hell is that?" Jim was pointing at a mark just above the band of Sherlock's pants. It wasn't enough that most people would notice, but then again Jim Moriarty wasn't most people. It was a faint red mark from where John had gripped Sherlock's hip just a tad bit too tightly, two fingers leaving their impression in his skin.

"Have you had someone else Sherlock?" Jim growled, his eyes glittering with malice. Sherlock's silence was enough for Jim to come to his own conclusions and he aimed a fist at Sherlock's ribs.

Sherlock gasped in pain, knowing one of his ribs had cracked, if not more. "I hope he was worth it Sherlock because I am going to make sure you remember that you are  _mine_." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut at Jim hit him, the sadistic pleasure he got from skin colliding, turning him on until he was high on it, ready to take Sherlock.

Sherlock closed it all out, the blows, the words spilling from Jim's mouth, the sex itself. He filled his mind with John. John Watson, the man who had accidentally changed Sherlock's life, now John was all Sherlock had to cling to. He filled his mind with images from earlier, the way John's eyes caught his and they had paused momentarily, each wondering if it had been real. Sherlock ran away to his escape, finding his safe place where it was just him and John and that was all that mattered.

Soon, but not really soon enough for Sherlock, Jim was dressing across the room, eyes boring into Sherlock as he buttoned his shirt. "Westwood," he stated when Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. "New suit, it's Westwood."

Sherlock nodded that he understood, head pounding from one of the many blows he'd received that night. Once again he'd escape out the back door and get a cab home, there was always one waiting for him, always no charge. He never questioned it, just silently climbed in and assessed the damages. Sometimes they were harder to hide from his brother and Lestrade, but Sherlock did it, though he must seem to be the clumsiest man alive.

Sherlock watched as Jim headed towards the door, grim smug plastered on his face. "I hope you've learned your lesson Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock bowed his head in Jim's direction and slumped back onto the bed as the door closed behind him. He wished he could just leave, or at least ask for help from his brother. But that would either end with his death or that of his brother. Sometimes Sherlock thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die, to find peace after everything he'd been through but he couldn't do that to Mycroft. No matter how much they fought he still loved his brother, still appreciated him.

Sherlock dressed, grimacing in the mirror at the new bruises forming. He slipped out the back door, finding the cab waiting for him and slid in silently. He stared out the window lost in thought as flats and homes passed by, most windows darkened at this late of an hour. Sherlock glimpsed movement down one of the roads, Baker Street it was, and for a fleeting second he thought he saw familiar sandy brown hair climbing out of a car.

A tear freed itself from Sherlock's eye, his resolve slowly crumbling as the cab drew closer to home. The cab finally stopped and through wet eyes Sherlock fumbled with the lock, finally opening it and slammed it behind him, tearing his way through the small flat and collapsing on his bed as the tears began streaming, heavy sobs racking through his body. Sherlock cried harder than he ever had in his whole life. Harder than the time he cried after his first night with Jim, harder than when he realized he was stuck and there was no turning back now. In that moment, Sherlock didn't care that he was an adult man, there was no one there to mock his tears.

He pictured Mycroft and Lestrade, living happily in their bubble of a world where James Moriarty didn't exist, was just a name heard in passing on both of their ends. He wished for that happiness now and if he really thought about, he wished for John Watson. He wished he could go back, to erase the years of drug use, erase the charges he'd been sentenced with. He wanted to erase the day he met Jim, cold and curled up on a park bench, begging for even a couple of quid to help him through the night.

Jim had promised him a lavish life where he could support himself, where he could be an honest man and how could Sherlock resist an offer like that? But everything had been a lie, Sherlock should have seen right through the lies but Jim had told him everything would be okay and Sherlock clung to that small hope.

Later on he had tried to escape, tried to free himself from Jim's clutches, but Jim had found him and threatened the life of Mycroft and Lestrade. He threatened to make their relationship public, to make everyone turn against them, and then he would kill them. He threatened to make life a living hell for everyone Sherlock knew if he didn't play Jim's twisted game. Sherlock also knew that tonight had been dangerous, he'd made mistakes, let himself go too much and he had suffered for it. Deep down though, Sherlock knew he didn't regret it, couldn't find it in himself to care he'd upset Jim, put his life in danger, it had been the most freedom he'd found in years.

He climbed wearily into bed, scrabbling for a nicotine patch in his bedside drawer. He sighed heavily into the pillow and closed his eyes, the feel of John's lips against his skin a last memory as he fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned brightly through the windows of Baker Street and John stretched, restricted tightly by the clothes he had on. Suddenly the memories of the night before filtered into his mind, a longing settling into John's very core. He rubbed at his eyes, rolling off the bed and standing, slipping out of his jacket and heading into the bathroom.

He gripped the edge of the sink, breathing heavily as he looked in the mirror, feeling older than he had in years. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, smiling sadly at the light marks on his neck. These marks would fade, but the imprint Sherlock left on his memory never would. John stepped out of his trousers and turned the shower tap on, letting the water heat up. As steam built up on the mirror, John stepped under the spray of water, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the muscles. He stood there, lost in thought of the night before as the water hit his back, stinging slightly as the temperature rose. He remembered the way Sherlock felt beneath him, the way he took in a slight breath whenever John would accidentally press down too hard on a bruise.

John felt anger bubbling to the surface as he thought about it all. Whoever allowed Jim to do that should be shot and John would gladly be the one to pull the trigger. No one deserved to be treated like that, especially not a brilliant and beautiful man like Sherlock. John wouldn't admit it to himself, but sometime during his shower tears began to mix in with the water, joining the rivulets carrying down his face.

John dressed quickly, already slightly late for work, but Molly would understand, she always did. He admired her, he really did. She worked hard and took a lot of flak from others at the hospital, but John thought she was brilliant.

* * *

John arrived at Saint Bart's five minutes after his shift began, but Molly was all smiles and understanding. "Long night John?"

"Yeah," he answered, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly. "You could definitely call it that."

"Anything you need to talk about?"

John appreciated Molly's quiet sincerity and knew that if anyone, it was her he could confide in. "Molly, what would you do if you knew something unethical was happening but you could possibly put your life on the line to stop it."

"I'd stop it. Isn't that part of what we do even here John? What's going on, what exactly are you talking about?"

"I'd tell you if it wouldn't put you in danger. I'm not going to take the risk, but I am going to do something. Thank you Molly, now, who's first on the slab?"

Molly looked at John, wanting to press him for more information but she knew she had gotten what she would out of him. John would open up to her, but only on his terms.

John was distracted the whole shift. His mind kept flitting between the night before and the bodies he should pay attention to. He knew Molly was worried about him but he pressed on, acting as if nothing was bothering him.

* * *

He was thankful for his lunch break, deciding on a whim to forgo the food he had packed and visit the small café around the corner of the street. He exited the building quickly before Molly could query him about where he was going.

The café was small and John ate in silence, sipping at his latte once it had cooled to a bearable degree. He watched the people walk by out the window, his gaze towards their direction, but not really reaching them. He was lost in thought about how to reach Sherlock, to find him, protect him, to hold him and never let him go.

John stood up from the table, intent on finding Sherlock when his shift was over. He tossed his trash into the bin as he exited the café and set off back to Saint Bart's.

* * *

John had denied Molly's request to have tea at her flat, begging a rain check as he set off towards the New Scotland Yard. He silently thanked whatever it was that had Lestrade tack the Detective Inspector onto his name the night before.

It was easier to get to the man than John had anticipated, the only real obstruction was the woman in front of him, Donovan, she had mentioned. "What do you need Lestrade for? We're busy with a case."

"Yes, well he's the only person who can give me some information on a person I've seem to have lost?"

"You've lost a person? How does one lose a person?"

"It's complicated. Look, I just need to ask him about Sherlock, it's very im-"

"Why are you here about the freak?"

"Pardon?" John asked, not sure where the conversation was going.

"Sherlock, the freak genius? He's a right psychopath you know." Donovan moved though, letting John inch closer to Lestrade's door. She turned, pushing the door to Lestrade's office open. "Lestrade, someone's here to see the freak."

John pushed past her but stopped suddenly when a set of blue eyes caught his and everything he had planned to say died in the back of his throat. He blinked once, twice, to make sure that it wasn't a figment of his imagination. That Sherlock really was sitting across from Lestrade, bundled up in a coat and scarf, fingers steepled under his chin as those blue eyes bore into John. "John?" Sherlock's voice rumbled, emotion flickering across the sharp edges of his face.

John wanted nothing more than to touch him, to make sure he was real, alive, flesh and blood. He took a tentative step forward; eyes trained on the dark curls, pale skin and parted lips. He hardly dared to breathe, to break the silence of the room and the spell that was weaving between the two men.

Suddenly Lestrade cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "I take it you two know each other?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, standing swiftly and sweeping John out of the room. "I will be back in a moment Lestrade; I need to talk to John."

John found himself being led out of the station, people staring as Sherlock pulled John along behind him, eyes shining like a madman's. When they were in the back alley, Sherlock allowed a moment to take in the man before him. The way he held himself from years in the service, how his jumper stretched just so across his chest, the bags under his eyes from a late night and early morning. "John, what are you doing here? This, this is dangerous."

"Sherlock, I couldn't just leave you like that. It's against everything I stand for as a professional and as a human. Maybe it's just me, but something changed last night and it scared me Sherlock. Can't your brother do something, anything?"

Sherlock studied John with tired eyes. "I wish I could ask him for his assistance, but he can't know. I don't know the lengths of trouble Jim could make for him. I have to bear this, alone."

"I won't let you. There has to be something. Take off for a bit from the Yard, come stay with me during the day. I have a bit of holiday leave built up. Please Sherlock, don't face this alone."

"I-I can't John. I can't risk your life too."

John grabbed Sherlock's wrist in one hand, the other coming up to cup Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, you can't decide my life for me. Now, if you're interested, be at 221b Baker Street tomorrow whenever you can get away from Jim. I'll be waiting for you." John pressed a soft kiss on Sherlock's mouth, his eyes searching for some sort of acknowledgement from the man. He found nothing other than sadness. He released his grip on Sherlock's wrist and turned, calling over his shoulder, "221b Baker Street. Remember that, the door will always be open for you."

John didn't look back, didn't see the resolve on Sherlock's face crumble until he was crying in a dirty back alley behind Scotland Yard. He didn't see the shoulders shaking as sobs wrecked through Sherlock.


	4. You Can Tell Anybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is E rated for a reason, and there is sex to behold in this chapter. You have been warned.

Sherlock stood on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street, hand fiddling with the phone in his left coat pocket. He wasn't sure why he was here, well he knew, just didn't want to admit it. He breathed in once, followed by a deep breath out, pushing the buzzer with a slender finger. He could hear John on the stairs and his heart began beating faster as he began to wonder if he should turn and flee. The door creaked open, revealing a sleepy-faced John Watson. His eyes widened as he took in Sherlock's form, huddled on his small step. "Sherlock? Come in, you look like you're freezing."

Sherlock followed John up the stairs and stood by the fireplace, letting his body warm up. He heard John in the kitchen, padding around in a dressing gown, making a pot of tea. He settled unsurely onto the couch, pulling his legs under him as he glanced around the room, taking in the things that made the flat John's. He saw a picture on the table, John and a woman, smiling happily and he filed it away, deciding to ask about it later.

John pressed a steaming cup into Sherlock's hand, pulling a blanket from the couch and sitting next to Sherlock, covering them both. "Why are you so cold? How long were you standing out there?"

"Wasn't standing there too long," Sherlock answered between sips of his tea. "Walked from my flat, about seven blocks."

"You're insane, Sherlock! It's freezing cold out there you could have gotten frostbite!" John looked into the cloudy grey eyes, grey today he realized, not blue, and was shocked to see that it seemed Sherlock wasn't used to being cared about. But that was okay, he was with John and John would take care of Sherlock. He placed his empty cup on the table and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin frame mumbling about body heat.

Sherlock leaned into the embrace, the heat from John spreading through him, even down into his bones it felt like. Sherlock relaxed, the tea soothing him and the warmth from the body next to him lulling him until he was fast asleep.

John heard and felt Sherlock's breathing slow and looked over at the man asleep on his shoulder. His face was relaxed, innocent and childish almost made it hurt John to breathe, the way his heart was breaking. Sherlock didn't deserve this, something John had told himself over and over again, he needed to get Sherlock as far away from London as possible, and he needed to do it soon. He didn't know how though and he didn't want to do it against Sherlock's wishes. He needed help, lots of it, and once again thought of going to the Yard or Mycroft for help. He knew if anyone would be able to get Sherlock to safety, it would be Mycroft, the man had made people disappear for good, and that's what Sherlock needed, to be forever forgotten.

John felt Sherlock turn, his right arm falling over John as he fit his lanky frame against John. John lay down on the couch, pulling Sherlock on top of him, allowing the man to rest more comfortably, but still have access to John's warmth.

John had never been in love, not really, but in that moment, a hand clenching softly into curly hair, John knew he was in love and there was no going back. He would do anything for Sherlock, and the first of those things was that he was going to make sure Sherlock was safe.

Sherlock talked a bit in his sleep, waking John from the slumber he had fallen into and he realized it was close to four, he needed to get food into Sherlock and discuss their options. He tried to lightly shake Sherlock awake, instead causing the man to shift closer, and tugging open John's dressing gown slightly. Sherlock's breath was puffing lightly across the exposed skin and John tried everything in his power to not be aroused. Unfortunately his brain supplied him with vivid details of the last time the two had been in close proximity, causing John to stiffen and hope he didn't wake Sherlock with his hard-on. He would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if he hadn't been trying to think of how he could slip from beneath Sherlock and take care of himself in the bathroom.

As he moved his arm to push Sherlock gently off of him, Sherlock turned, falling in between John's legs, rubbing against John as a hand fell loosely across John's abdomen. John closed his eyes, picturing Mrs Hudson in a bikini, bodies at the morgue, but nothing helped, especially not the moan of John's name that slipped from Sherlock's lips as he began to rut against John in his sleep.

John knew he needed to wake Sherlock, to stop this, but there was something almost primitive gripping him, keeping him still as Sherlock moved against him. He lay there, gripping the couch tightly as Sherlock moved, hoping Sherlock would stop moving soon and fall back into a fitful sleep. Almost as if the thought had transferred through osmosis, Sherlock stopped moving and became rigid, barely breathing. John opened his eyes, about to take the man's vitals, when he looked down into a set of open eyes, heavy lidded by sleep and desire and he was struck at how beautiful Sherlock was.

"John, shit I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, cheeks heating slightly.

"S'okay, it happens to everyone."

"Not while they're sleeping on top of said person. Actually, I thought I was sitting up, I guess I should apologise for sleeping on top of you."

"Quite alright Sherlock, you were tired, you needed the sleep but I didn't want to leave you."

Sherlock swallowed deeply before speaking, not used to any sort of affection, especially when it was directed towards him. "Thank you John," he whispered quietly, catching John's soft grey eyes with his own.

"Really Sherlock it's fine." He really needed to get out of the room for the time being to take care of the erection straining against his trousers but it seemed Sherlock was hell-bent on not moving.

"I could…" Sherlock trailed off, a small smile on his face, looking almost like a child asking for a favour and it took John a moment to register that Sherlock was talking about the persisting problem in John's pants. Oh.  _Oh._

John didn't know proper sex etiquette but he figured that now wasn't the time to pull out the books and damn if Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to, and John realised he really needed to stop arguing internally with himself. "I mean, if you want," he stuttered, trying to form coherent words.

Sherlock smiled, a wonderfully delicious smile if you asked John, and leaned up to kiss him, sleep and a stale taste of tobacco on Sherlock's mouth, John registered. He pulled Sherlock towards him, relishing in these delicious kisses, stolen between quick nips at one another's lips as Sherlock began to press his lithe body against John's.

If you had asked John to describe himself, the first two adjectives would have been short and stocky. As Sherlock took the time to explore John's body with his hands, while his mouth was busy drinking in those wonderful jam-flavoured kisses, Sherlock would describe John's body as muscled and strong, tanned and gorgeous. He hated his own lanky frame, the way he had to bend to fit into cabs and sometimes even low doorframes. But his John, and really when had John become  _his_ John, was perfect. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to John's neck, eliciting a low moan from John's throat that reverberated beautifully in the expanse of the flat.

Sherlock continued to kiss John, soft lazy kisses that made John think of rainy days in front of the fireplace, reading an amazingly good book, but this fantasy was real. The man kissing him was real, and so was the ever-present danger they both were facing.

John pushed against Sherlock, mumbling against his lips. Sherlock rocked backwards, off of John, a hurt look crossing his face. "I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"

"No." John shook his head to emphasise the point. "I just can't stop thinking about everything. Sherlock, I can't watch you keep going down this road, I have to do something, have to help you, and have to get you away."

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead, pushing down emotions, locking them away in his mind. "John we've been over this, there's no escape for me. I'm trapped, caught in the web Jim weaved for me."

"Sherlock, what if you disappeared? What if it seemed like you died, or just fell off the earth?"

"That's Jim's job, to help people disappear. Who would help me?"

"I would," John whispered; thumb brushing lightly over Sherlock's hand. "Your brother, Lestrade, I'm sure they would help, my sister, she works for Mycroft."

Surprise flickered over Sherlock's features, John was smart, much more clever than most of the people Sherlock encountered, even at the Met, especially at the Met. "I couldn't put any of them, or you, in that much danger."

"I don't care about the danger Sherlock, I care about you and I'll bet they'd say the same thing too."

"It simply isn't a good idea. It isn't safe for any of you to be involved."

"According to you, this, right now, isn't safe, but I bet you feel safe, cared for even, and that's what matters. You know what Sherlock? Damn what you think, damn what he's told you, the lies he's spun for you, I'm a soldier and I sure as hell can hold my own against him. Talk to your brother Sherlock, he can get you out of here."

Sherlock paused for a moment, usually so sure in his words, his actions, but at a loss for a words in John's presence. "What about you?" he asked, his eyes meeting John's the need to reach out and touch John suddenly overwhelming.

"I'll stay here," he answered before adding "unless you want me to come," at the look on Sherlock's face. This was all surreal to John, the thought of assuming a new identity, going to a new place with Sherlock, a man he'd only met one other time really, but who was to say it was wrong?

"I just don't think I could do it alone. We could be brothers or, I mean whatever you want really, don't want to tell you what to do, it's all up to you of course."

John had the impression that Sherlock was usually a man of words, speaking his mind, but had no idea what to say in the face of true kindness and caring. It made him wonder what life in the Holmes household must have been like for the two brothers. "So you're willing to do this? To fall off the face of the planet and reappear on the other side of the world as a completely new person?"

"To put it simply John, no. But seeing as you, for some odd reason, are willing to take the leap with me helps quite a bit."

"I don't quite understand why I'm willing to do this, except for the fact that I care, not just because I swore a Hippocratic oath mind you, but because when I walked into your room that night, I left a changed man, You changed me Sherlock and as mad as that seems, it's true."

"It's not mad John, given, it should be, but it isn't. I am a man of little emotion, seeing as my profession; both of them really, leave little room for those sorts of frivolities. But I also know when to be honest and this is most definitely the time for that. You are the only person in existence that knows about Jim's rendezvous with me, I don't know why I was compelled to tell you that night, why I didn't turn you away. There was something about you John Watson, something that made me instantly trust you, with my life really, and here you are, willing to follow me into basic oblivion, leaving everyone and everything behind for a person who is practically a stranger to you. You are certainly a puzzle John Watson and I do love a good puzzle."

"I don't know what to say Sherlock, I really don't but you hit a basic truth, I would follow you off into this oblivion, making a new identity with you because you changed me Sherlock. I only have my sister, Mrs Hudson, and Molly to leave. I have a feeling though, that Harry, my sister mind you, would know simply because she works for your brother and I could make up something about moving abroad to Mrs Hudson and Molly. They'd be sad but they'd understand."

"I'd still admit I don't like the idea one iota, but it seems to be the only option other than staying with Jim and honestly, to do that and know you're here, willing to take care of me, I don't know if I could do it."

"You don't have to, it's settled then, how would we contact your brother?"

"What's the time?"

"Half past four, why?"

"I know where he's at, goes the same place every day after work. He stops receiving diplomatic calls at four and is at the Diogenes Club by four fifteen every day."

"Can we show up there? Is it safe?"

"Quite safe I'd imagine, and Mycroft has a study there, he probably owns the place for all I know."

"Right, well shall we head out?"

"Yes, we'll catch a cab and then walk the remaining two blocks so that I can be sure we aren't followed."

With that, Sherlock jumped from the couch where he had been sitting on John and began pacing, ticking things away silently on his fingers. John exited the sitting room, and entered his bedroom, pulling off his dressing gown and sliding on a jumper.

Sooner than you could say Baker Street, they were off in the cab, rolling slowly towards the Diogenes club. Sherlock was brooding silently on the left side of the seat, processing everything that had happened and running scenarios through his mind. He was already making new personas for him and John, trying out brothers, cousins, mate, and husbands, building lives for them in the name of others, trying to create a seamless cover. Mycroft would be able to attain the necessary documents to make the ruse believable, if he promised to help them at all.

* * *

John was fidgeting in the chair, plush leather and expensive wood, Mycroft's glare directed at his brother but also reaching John. "You want me to hide you away because you can't control yourself? Certainly you know the procedures for things like this, takes months."

The first though John had was  _what a pretentious ass_  followed quickly by,  _does he not care at all about his brother's well-being_? John sat there, ignoring the glances Mycroft was sending him, no doubt wondering why John was there.

"Mycroft, that's how I got in this bleeding place for god's sake! I thought-"

"And therein lies your problem brother, you in fact  _believed_ you thought, but really, you didn't, most likely couldn't. Tell me, at the time were you or were you not currently detoxing on a park bench when one James Moriarty gave you his proposal."

"Yes I was, thanks to you."

"Sherlock, do not think for a second you may pin this on me. You chose your road, mummy would be disappointed."

"Sod off Mycroft; I thought maybe, just maybe you'd be willing to help out your brother."

"First things first, please explain to me why Doctor John Hamish Watson, recently invalided home from Afghanistan, currently employed by Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, is sitting in my room."

John wasn't stunned by the information, knowing full well what Mycroft was capable of. "I'm here because I'm helping Sherlock."

"How do you mean?"

"I want to go with him."

Mycroft studied John, trying to read everything he could in the man before something finally clicked into place. John and Sherlock had copulated, how quaint.

"Seeing as how you have apparently found the  _finer_  points of my brother, I assume you are under the notion that you are in love with him and would follow him to the end of the world as they say?"

"Love, maybe, but I do know that in the few days of knowing Sherlock, I would gladly give my life for him."

"This is what you'd be doing, literally. You people with your silly notions of romance and emotions. Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft sighed lightly, shifting in his chair.

"Mycroft, he's your brother for god's sake!" John was sitting on the edge of his chair, talking animatedly with his hands, glaring down Mycroft as if he was back on the frontlines, talking to a subordinate that was questioning him.

"Yes, I am aware that Sherlock is my brother, John. But I cannot be held responsible for his actions. I will however, arrange for the two of you two be sent somewhere safe with completely new identities. You'll need to take care of my brother John, keep him out of trouble."

"I can keep myself out of trouble, thank you," Sherlock snapped, glaring at Mycroft across the desk.

"Obviously," Mycroft smirked, steepling his fingers under his chin, a mirror pose of Sherlock's own stance. "But anyway, I presume you will be traveling back to Baker Street for the evening and will be able to be reached there once I procure the necessary documents?"

John felt relief wash trough him, Mycroft really was going to help them.

Sherlock answered, "Yes Mycroft, where else would I go?"

"I never know with you, dear brother. You always seem to find trouble. The next problem is though, what are we going to do about Jim Moriarty?"

John was the first to speak, "is there any way you could get Lestrade involved? There has to be some trail leading to Moriarty from a crime somewhere."

"Moriarty is extremely intelligent and very good at his job; he'd have to have a very good reason to ever mess up; which is why I'm agreeing to this. If he loses something very dear to him, he may be pushed to do something rash, therefore leading us to him."

"All this time, you knew?" John was indignant. "You knew he was keeping your brother and you never tried to stop it?"

"I did what I could," Mycroft answered softly, sinking back into the chair. "I kept surveillance, had people posted on Moriarty, but he's too good, even for me."

"Right," Sherlock pronounced, rising from his chair. "Baker Street, we'll need passports, credit cards, the entire gamut. We will see you this evening. Goodbye Mycroft."

"Goodbye Sherlock, it's been nice knowing you. Oh, and John, take care of him will you, he tends to find trouble too easily."

* * *

Sherlock was pacing the room, John watching him from his armchair. "We'll need to get new clothes, practice accents for wherever we're going, find jobs unless Mycroft is providing that, can never tell with him. I'll have to get new equipment, hope the cards have a high limit."

"Sherlock, could you sit down, have a cuppa? It's going to be alright."

Sherlock turned and stared at John. "Of course it'll be alright, as long as we get a good head start and Moriarty can't get into my brother's encrypted files and so much could go wrong!" He threw his hands up in the air and dropped gracelessly into the chair opposite John. "Now we have to play the waiting game, see what my brother digs up. We'll probably end up in Russia."

"But I don't know Russian!" John exclaimed, looking worriedly at Sherlock.

"He'll figure something out; put you in as an ambassador or something. You have military background along with being trained in medicine. I only have my deduction skills and ability to properly do experiments. I'll probably be stuck in a lab somewhere."

"It can't be that bad, at least you'll be safe."  _And with me_ , John though, but didn't articulate, not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable before they moved off to the other side of the world together. He figured people would probably think him mental for running off with a man he's only met twice, had had sex with and suddenly decided he needed nothing more in life than said man. But here he was, watching Sherlock pace and worry over the next steps, something they had no control over at the moment. He found himself rising from his chair and moving to hover over Sherlock before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, wanting to calm the man.

Sherlock glanced up, meeting soft grey eyes and a tanned face, realizing deep down that he might possibly not mind waking up every morning to that sight. He kissed John back, tugging lightly at John's jumper to pull him onto his lap, clinging to the kiss as if it were his lifeline.

John smiled into the kiss, hands roaming the hard lines of Sherlock's body, taut muscles and sinew melding together to form the lanky frame. John caressed Sherlock's cheek, his lips grazing for Sherlock's, his tongue sweeping across Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock sighed into John's touch; a hand grabbing at John's back, pressing John into him. He felt soft flesh beneath wool and polyester, warmth radiating off both their bodies. John bit softly at Sherlock's exposed clavicle, fingers tearing at buttons, head swimming with desire for the man beneath him. He pushed the shirt off of Sherlock's shoulders, allowing it to bunch around Sherlock's forearms as he ran a hand into Sherlock's hair, soft curls winding around his fingers as he sat astride Sherlock's lap.

Sherlock ran a hand under the soft tan jumper, spreading his fingers against the expanse of John's chest and stomach, tweaking one of the soft lumps of flesh, causing John to moan into Sherlock's neck. The sound reverberated into Sherlock's chest, causing his erection to strain harder against its confines of cloth. "You make me feel," Sherlock choked out, the admittance shocking him more than it did John.

John smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"No, I don't think so. I just, no one has ever made me  _feel_. My brother once told me that because we were so different from most kids that it would be worse to feel emotions for people that would just look at us weirdly. I think I allowed that into my head, lost all emotions, never needed them really especially when it came to Jim, but John, you've broken through all that, made me understand what it means to really feel. It's not just lust, not really love, but something in between. I can't really wrap my mind around it."

"It's okay to not know everything."

"No it isn't. My life depends on being the smartest person in the room."

"Sherlock, there's a difference in knowledge of sciences and maths and knowledge of emotions and feelings." John kissed him again, languorously, letting the thought process through Sherlock's mental computer.

"Right, maybe you're right." Sherlock pulled John back to him, kissing him fervently.

John pulled back, standing off of Sherlock, instead pulling him to the couch. He pressed Sherlock into the cushions, resuming his position on top of the taller man, legs placed on either side of Sherlock's hips so that he could press them together, erections pressing through their pants, both engorged and needing the other.

Sherlock rose on his elbows, capturing one of John's nipples in his mouth, sucking on it gently so that John would crash their hips together.

Sherlock slid his fingers down John's sides, squeezing lightly at the flesh before slipping his fingers under the band of John's pants and slid them off, freeing John's erection as he slipped a hand around it, nimble fingers pulling along its length.

John moaned, his fingers clasping around the band of Sherlock's pants, stripping them off of him and ground their erections together, moaning at the shock of pleasure that ran through him. "Oh god John", Sherlock groaned, his hips bucking up into John's hand grabbing onto the cushion of the couch.

John pulled off of Sherlock, causing the slender man to whine, but John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's swollen mouth and dashed up the stairs, returning quickly with a small bottle of lube. He seated himself back on top of Sherlock, hand grabbing at Sherlock's thigh as he opened the lid of the bottle, slicking up his fingers. He pressed one softly against the tight ring of muscle at Sherlock's entrance. He slowly slid a digit in, watching Sherlock's face, losing himself in the lust written in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's cock once again, stroking it softly, slowly while John slid his finger in and out, occasionally flicking against Sherlock's prostate, causing pleasure to shoot through Sherlock's spine and curl warmly in his stomach. He gasped when John added a second, hooking them as Sherlock continued to move his hand on John's cock.

By the time John had added a third finger, stretching Sherlock, making him feel full, Sherlock was coming apart at the seams. His left leg was twitching slightly, needing John to be inside him, thrusting deeply. Sherlock fondled John's balls softly, loving the way John threw his head back and moaned, Sherlock's fingers caressing the sensitive skin.

John pulled away from Sherlock's hand, applying lube to his cock before pushing Sherlock's legs open wider, Sherlock's right leg falling of the couch and hitting the floor with a soft thump. John pressed in, kissing Sherlock's chest, rubbing circles into Sherlock's thigh as he inched in, filling Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned when John began to pull back out, dragging along the edges of Sherlock's entrance. His blue irises locked onto John's grey ones, and Sherlock pulled John's head down to press a voracious kiss to John's mouth, cutting off the moan escaping him as John began to thrust in and out slowly. He began to pick up speed, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Sherlock's nipple, causing Sherlock to arch up into him.

"Faster, god, harder, John," the words spilled out of Sherlock's mouth as John obeyed, shifting position to hit Sherlock's prostate with each thrust, spurred on by Sherlock's hand on his own erection, trying to keep time with John.

John stared, watching Sherlock wank himself as John thrust in and out of him, his orgasm building deep in the pit of his stomach. "Won't last much longer Sherlock," he panted sheen of sweat beading on his forehead.

"Good, neither will I." Sherlock kissed John again, biting hard on John's lip. John came with a cry, spilling into Sherlock, trying to keep himself from falling onto Sherlock. He kept sliding slightly inside of Sherlock as he orgasmed, needing Sherlock to orgasm too.

Sherlock could feel it building, pressing against him to be released as he moved his hand faster, tugging and pulling until suddenly the world blacked out around the edges, and he was ejaculating between them, cum hitting John 's chest as John's arms buckled and he fell on Sherlock, sex-sated and sleepy.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple, brushing back John's fringe as he did so. John breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of sex and Sherlock's musky undertones before pushing off of Sherlock and grabbing his discarded clothes. "Come on, we need to clean up, your brother will be here sometime."

* * *

Mycroft sat on the couch, not quite understanding why John was suppressing a fit of giggles and Sherlock was sitting across from him with a smirk on his face. He sighed impatiently as John handed him a cuppa, returning to his armchair. "I have with me two passports, licenses, birth certificates and all other needed documents necessary for a married couple to purchase a home in the United States."

"At least it isn't Russia. But you said the US, where do they allow two men to be married there?"

"Not of importance, you two have just moved from Wales, Cardiff in fact and are now residing in one of the smallest town's I could find. Mr Donald Greyson and Mr Alexander Greyson", Mycroft told them, handing each man a folder filled with information about the person they were to become. "Obviously, since you have just moved from Cardiff you are going to have accents, but I suggest you try and pick up the pronunciations and dialect of the area. Messieurs Greyson and Greyson, welcome to the Commonwealth of Virginia."

John stared at the page, the grey two-story house standing out in bleak contrast to the green of the woods surrounding it. "Where exactly in Virginia is this?"

"Apparently a small town called Surry. It is across the James River from Williamsburg, near the county of Isle of Wight and the town of Smithfield."

"So basically you immersed us into an area where we would at least know how to pronounce the names of the areas we will live in?" Sherlock queries, a smile creeping onto his face.

"Precisely. Now, if you turn to page two of your file, you will notice you already have occupations, Sherlock, you are a researcher for Jefferson Labs and John, a RN for Riverside Hospital."

John cut in; face furrowing, "how will we get to work? When are our first shifts?"

"Everything is in a file in a safe in the house. Sherlock knows the code, just doesn't have the clue yet. There is a car in the driveway, John, that's yours, Sherlock's is in a parking garage at Richmond International Airport, tickets and parking provided by yours truly. Is there anything else you need?"

"Yeah," John laughed, "if you catch the bastard you'll let us know, right?"

"There are two mobiles in the safe, prepaid and my number is programmed into them as Kevin. Only call if it is a life or death emergency. If we catch Moriarty I personally will come to collect the both of you."

"So I guess this is it then," Sherlock states, looking at his brother sullenly. "I'll see you sometime Mycroft, do plan on visiting, I know how much you love rural areas. Bring Lestrade along with you. John and I, or Donald I should say, would love to have you for a cuppa."

Mycroft smiled, well at least what passed as a smile from Mycroft and sat his teacup on the table, looking at Sherlock wistfully. "I wish it could be different Sherlock, but I'll have as many men on it as I can."

"Yeah, well your best man for the case will be a continent over in witness protection or wherever you nicked these files from."

"Just, be careful will you?" Mycroft trained his eyes on Sherlock, so many unspoken words hanging in their air between them. "Your plane leaves Heathrow at ten am. The tickets are on the table. Have a good time in Virginia for me, will you?" With that Mycroft was shutting the door behind him, footsteps disappearing as he walked down the steps and out the front door, leaving Sherlock and John staring at each other.

"This is really happening," John whispered, sitting back in his chair. "We're leaving England and not looking back."

"Seems that way," Sherlock responded, breathing deeply. "At least I'm not going alone."

Sitting there in his flat, staring at the tall, pale man that had fallen into his life, John realized he might believe in fate after all.


	5. That This is Your Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys move into their new accommodations, settle into routines, and go to work!

It had been a bit difficult to find the car, a black sedan with no outspoken qualities, parked in a far corner of long-term parking. Sherlock had scanned the car park lot, face half-hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. John would have laughed at the comical picture of Sherlock in oversized sunglasses if it hadn't been for the fact he was sporting a pair himself. John hefted both of their carry-ons behind him, wondering if Sherlock had perhaps packed the entirety of his experiment supplies into it and once again wondered how they had made it through airport security and customs. True, he thought Sherlock was going to punch one who dared ask him to leave his water bottle before entering security, but they made it through unharmed.

Sherlock went to the driver's side door, sliding in as John grinned, shoving their suitcases into the boot and slammed the lid down, sliding effortlessly into the left hand door and behind the wheel. "Forget where we are Sherlock?"

"No, thought you'd enjoy driving."

"Right," John grinned, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the parking spot, locating the ticket stub hidden in the vanity mirror.

The ride out of the city was quiet, Sherlock reading Science Today in the passenger seat, some Top 20 station playing softly in the background. John watched the city grow smaller, concrete giving away to grass and trees.

About an hour after leaving the airport car park John was turning onto a dirt road that the GPS was telling him was Colonial Drive. They bumped down the road passing well-kept lawns and shiny cars giving off clues as to the inhabitants inside. John turned into the driveway of a grey two-story house, pulling into the garage and parking.

John hefted the suitcases up the stairs into the house, looking into the spacious kitchen and living room. Sherlock breezed past him, tossing his coat onto an armchair and placing his equipment bag gingerly onto the kitchen counter. "Shall we see how Mycroft furnished the upstairs?"

John nodded, following Sherlock up the staircase and pausing behind him as Sherlock poked his head into the first room. "Master bedroom, king-sized bed, I hope you're fine with that."

John was going to say they'd shared a bed before but thought better of it, not wanting to dredge up the reason they were here so soon. "That's fine, what else is up here?"

Sherlock opened each door, calling out what he found in turn. "Closet, guest bedroom unfurnished, study, bathroom."

"That makes three bathrooms total. The one that's on the first floor, the master bath and that one."

"I expect we'll not need the third one unless Mycroft sends someone to look out for us."

"Alright, should we find out our new identities?" John let Sherlock pass him in the hall, making his way back to the master bedroom.

Sherlock knelt in the closet in front of the safe, turning the knob quickly as the lock clicked open. "It was simple, the code. It was in the colours of the room. When I was younger I would become obsessed with certain colours. Mycroft has three of them in here, white, blue, and red. The white was age eleven, the first number. Blue was age seven, thus the second number. Red was age sixteen therefore being the third number. I used the order my eye fell on them first. The white rug, blue duvet, and red curtains."

John stood there, staring slack-jawed as he realised the true brilliance of the man in front of him. "That was amazing."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah, it was brilliant."

Sherlock blushed at John's words, not used to receiving praise from anyone. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John broke out into a laugh, Sherlock joining him as they stood there in their borrowed house, their fake personas sitting in envelopes in safes. "Right, so let's find out a little more about ourselves shall we?"

Sherlock pulled out the two manila envelopes, handing the one marked Donald Greyson to John. Sherlock pulled out his, Alexander Greyson, and dumped the contents onto the bed. A wallet, containing picture ID, work badge, and assorted credit cards fell out, along with a folded letter. John's envelope held much of the same, although a large wad of cash was contained in his, a note attached to it from Mycroft saying John needed to do most of the grocery shopping because Sherlock thought tea was the only form of nourishment necessary.

Sherlock opened his letter, scanning through it quickly, gleaning information about the person he was to become, the details of his and John's marriage, reasons why they moved from Wales. John's letter read much the same, except there was more of a warning tone, telling him to take care of Sherlock to keep an eye on him and an eye out for any signs of Moriarty.

They turned on their mobiles, Kevin and Lee, who Sherlock found to be Lestrade, the only contacts in there other than their jobs and each other.

* * *

John was sitting at the laptop Mycroft had left in the study for him, researching the area they were in and the hospital he would be working in. There wasn't much in the small town they had been deposited in. There were no supermarkets, one was a thirty minute drive and the other was across the river via ferry. If someone wanted to disappear completely this would be a good place to start. Mycroft had set up bookshelves, every genre of book sitting there for them to read. There were science journals scattered across the small coffee table in the room from where Sherlock had glanced through them before he had taken one downstairs and flopped on the couch to read it. John closed the laptop, crossing to the bookshelf and glanced at the titles. He laughed the small section of romance novels, wondering why Mycroft would think they would read any, and instead grabbed a Stephen King novel. He sank into the leather arm chair, switching on the reading lamp next to him.

John had cooked dinner, a simple chicken Alfredo, with the ingredients Mycroft had stocked the pantry with. He had gotten Sherlock to eat some of it, beginning to understand what Mycroft had meant about Sherlock being hard to handle.

John had washed the dishes while Sherlock read on the couch, a silence settling between them that took a turn for the uncomfortable when Sherlock joined John in the bedroom after his shower. John felt that some line was about to be crossed, that this night would cause everything to shift, the dynamic of the way they worked together to change.

John settled into the left side of the bed, laying there rigidly, not wanting to get too close, too fast. This was saying something when you were lying in bed with someone you had had sex with. He felt the weight of Sherlock shift onto the bed, lying centimetres apart, hands nearly brushing as breathing evened out and the weight of the world slid slowly off their shoulders if only for the next few hours.

* * *

Sherlock awoke suddenly, confused as to where he was, someone yelling loudly near his ear. As his senses returned to him slowly, he remembered he was in the United States and that John was the one yelling, though his eyes were shut. John began to whimper, curling into the foetal position, "no, please don't," escaping his mouth. Sherlock shook John's shoulders, trying to wake him, but John grasped his forearms, pulling him closer. "Get down," he growled against Sherlock's protests. Sherlock struggled in John's hands, finally freeing an arm and did the only thing he could think of, he slapped John.

John stopped moving and blinked up at Sherlock whose face was swimming into focus. "God, Sherlock, I'm sorry I should have warned you, haven't had one in ages," he mumbled, wiping sleep out of his eyes and glancing at the clock that read 1:07. "Christ it's early, I'm sorry for waking you."

"What was that?" Sherlock inquired, punctuating each word in turn. "I mean, I know it was a nightmare, but why?"

"Army will do that to a person. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is the clinical term for it though."

Sherlock rocked back from his position of half-kneeling on the bed over John and slipped back beneath the duvet. "Brought on by the move and current events?"

"Yeah. Jesus, haven't had one in ages. Stopped seeing my therapist and everything."

Sherlock studied John's face by the dim light in the room, realising how weary John really looked, lines drawn on his face from years of service. "Right, well let's get back to sleep; is there anything that can help?"

"I just have to get used to the move, I'll be fine, I promise."

Sherlock turned on his side, mind whirling and trying to find any sort of information on PTSD. He heard John's breathing slow and waited until he knew John was fully asleep before turning towards the man, wrapping an arm around his waist and hoping he could keep him grounded through the night. He smiled slightly when John shifted into the embrace slightly and whispered, "Welcome back to the battlefield Watson."

* * *

John woke up to the beeping of the alarm clock, groggily pulling out of the blanket of sleep and first registered that there was a person holding him before slapping the clock and hopefully hitting the off button. He pushed against Sherlock who rolled over and groaned, obviously not accustomed to the time-difference yet either. It was the third morning in a row that John had awoken to Sherlock's arm draped over him, but he didn't mind, thought it felt quite nice really. "Come on Sherlock, we have actual jobs to go to today. Up."

Sherlock curled into himself, much like a petulant child, and did his best to ignore John's voice.

"Sherlock, up, I know you're tired. I'm tired too. Come on and get up, you have to get to work. Think about it, microscopes and experiments and all of those things you love. I read they have the first and largest atom splitter."

Sherlock made an attempt to rouse himself, he hadn't felt this lethargic since he had experimented with cannabis. He forced himself awake by naming the bones of the body in no apparent order. "Fibula, tibia, phalanges, occipital orbit, pelvis, carpals, coccyx…"

"I'm going to fix breakfast," John interrupted, standing fully-clothed in the doorway.

Sherlock glared at him, John's chipper mood almost angering him as he slinked out of bed, rummaging through the chest-of-drawers and pulling out a pair of dress trousers and grabbing a button-up from the closet. He pulls his trousers on, listening to John thump down the stairs towards the kitchen. As Sherlock buttons his shirt, tucking it into his trousers neatly, he thinks about how ever since he pulled John to him that first night, there had been no more nightmares. What would happen though once the jet lag wore off completely and Sherlock went back to not sleeping, rarely eating, would that affect John's sleeping pattern?

Sherlock made his way downstairs, sitting at the small kitchen island and propping his feet on the stool. John slid a plate of eggs and bacon across the countertop, humming lightly under his breath as Sherlock watched him move, John's stocky frame accentuated by the navy blue hospital scrubs he had purchased the day before.

John sat opposite of Sherlock, digging into the pile of food on his plate and cringing at the thought that soon he would be eating hospital food for lunch and sometimes dinner. "How do you breathe in that?" he asked Sherlock through a mouthful of eggs, pointing at the purple shirt Sherlock had donned, buttons seemingly ready to escape from their thread.

"Like a normal human. Inhale, exhale, all of that, the lungs use the oxygen, send it to the bloodstream and all that."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. It looks so bloody tight, how is it possibly comfortable?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, poking at a piece of bacon on his plate before replying. "This is one of my favourite shirts. All my shirts are the same size I assure you, tailor made for me."

John blinked, absorbing the information. "Tailor made, of course, my apologies."

Sherlock stood from the stool, shoes slapping against the linoleum as he placed his plate in the sink, drinking down the last bit of his tea before gathering his jacket. "According to the information my brother left, I get off work at five so I'll be home around six. What shift are you working today?"

"Eight to four, just an introductory shift today. I'll have dinner ready when you get home."

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell John there was no need to fix a portion for him, but decided against it, instead grabbing his wallet and keys, heading to the garage where his car waited.

John finished his food, quickly sticking the dishes into the dishwasher and set off towards work, locking the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock bust into the door at three minutes after six, shedding his jacket and slumping into the armchair nearest the fireplace. "John, they had the stupidest people trying to tell me how to do things! I spent all day learning things that I knew how to do when I was seventeen!"

John chuckled from where he stood over the stove, asparagus sautéing in the pan. "How so Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, draping himself sideways across the chair. "Well, when I got there, they led me into this room where I met everyone, as if niceties were necessary. Then one of the interns showed me to my desk, which is roughly the size of our bed mind you, and was told that the list sitting on my desk was the people and places I would be learning about. Everything on the list was something I already knew about and I thought I would explode from boredom, listening to the same spiels over and over. Then finally they allowed me to do work at around two and they were the three most blissful hours of my life because I was alone with Irene."

"Who's Irene?" John asked, ignoring the small stab of jealousy in his gut.

"The most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on. I really should thank Mycroft. Irene is the name for the proton accelerator we use."

"Ah, well at least you have something fun to play with at work. I had to deal with people all day."

"Yeah, but you're cut out for that sort of thing. The whole, caring for people even when their being stubborn sort of thing."

"You would know. Now come on, dinner's ready."

Sherlock seated himself into one of the dining room chairs, food spread out on the table in front of him. John had prepared baked chicken in a white wine sauce, sautéed asparagus, and the fluffiest rolls Sherlock had ever seen. "Where did you learn to cook like this?" Sherlock asked around the bite of roll occupying the space in his mouth.

"My mum. She and dad loved cooking; they even took lessons together before the accident. I used to follow her around all the time, so she taught me to prepare meals. Harry was always with dad, she never enjoyed being in the kitchen."

Sherlock cut a piece of chicken, tender and juicy, and chewed before asking, "What accident?"

"When I was twenty-two, about to head out on my first tour of Afghanistan, and Harry was sixteen, our parents were hit head-on by a drunk driver. I was about to leave the country and Harriet had to live with our aunt and uncle. We both disliked them, but what can you do? When I came home the first time, Harriet was coping, Clara was a huge help, and they had good jobs and a flat together. Then they started having more and more domestics and Harry started the drinking. When I was invalided home, Harry and I were barely talking so I found a flat I could afford, the landlady; Mrs Hudson worked out a deal with me since I was ex-military and all."

Sherlock processed the information, filing away names and relationships if needed for further use and deleted the unnecessary information. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Harriet and I are at peace with it now, and she's been off the bottle for months now, your brother helped with that. Threatened her job."

"My brother is used to getting what he wants. I think that's why I rebelled so much."

John waited for Sherlock to continue, but with no forthcoming details he decided not to press it, to let Sherlock talk when he wanted to.

"Dinner was wonderful, thank you. I think you should know though, eating like this isn't normal for me. I usually only eat when necessary, so please don't be offended if I refuse a meal."

"That isn't healthy."

"Yes, well I've been doing it for quite a while now and survived." Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table, taking his plate and glass to the kitchen and placing them in the sink. "I'll be in the study if you need me."

* * *

John climbed the stairs and turned to the right, pushing open the door to the study. Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, journals and books haphazardly strewn across the coffee table. "Budge up," John said, motioning to Sherlock to move his legs. Sherlock lifted them, setting them across John's lap once he was seated, book in hand.

Sherlock glanced at the title and scoffed. "Who reads rubbish like that?"

"I do. I enjoy the escape it gives me from the mundaneness of everyday life. I don't have to worry about anything, I allow myself to become absorbed in the book, taking me on all sorts of adventures."

"I read things that are practical; fiction is a waste of time, mindless fluff."

"Well you can have all your practical journals and I'll take my mindless fluff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted slightly, wriggling his toes against John's leg.

"Is there something I can help you with Sherlock?" John inquired, glancing up from his book.

Sherlock sat his journal to the side and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Do you find it odd, us sitting here like we've known one another for years, pretending to be a perfectly normal married couple?"

"Well, when you put it like that it seems weird. But honestly, yeah, I find it a bit strange at times. Why?"

"I never thought myself to be married."

"Because of Moriarty?"

"No, more because of my work. I've always found science and experiments to be more interesting than people."

"So why are you here?"

Sherlock sat up, folding his legs beneath him as he regarded John. "I think you know why. Life and death, I do prefer breathing over being a body in the morgue."

"I mean, why did you agree to come here, with me?" John bit his lip nervously, waiting for Sherlock's answer.

"Because…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to come up with a proper answer. "Because it felt right. This means I should have run the opposite direction. My brother is a lot better at ignoring his emotions than I am which is the reason why we are here. I trusted you John. Something happened that night we met, I felt like I could trust you and then you showed up wanting to save me."

John sat back, processing the information momentarily before leaning in and capturing Sherlock's lips with his own. "You make me feel," was all he offered, pulling away only to mutter the words before pulling Sherlock back to him.

Sherlock leaned into the embrace, a hand sliding to John's neck to pull him closer as John's tongue slipped into his mouth, the taste of wine tingling into Sherlock's senses.

"Acting like a bloody schoolboy," John muttered into Sherlock's neck, pressing a kiss there before pulling back and looking at Sherlock softly. "Sorry about that," he mumbled diffidently, cheeks heating slightly.

Sherlock took in John's eyes, the way his chest rose and fell quickly, the beating of his heart and realised his body matched John's. "It's alright. I don't mind."

"I seem to lose all sense when I'm around you."

 _So do I_ Sherlock thought to himself, trying to reign in his feelings but found he couldn't.

"So, I was thinking," John began, pausing to clear his throat, "since we're married and all, maybe we could try dating?"

Sherlock went to say that the question made absolutely no sense before running it over again in his mind. "Clever one you are John, but yeah, let's try this whole dating thing shall we?"

John kissed Sherlock again for good measure, smiling at the absurdity of the entire situation.  _You love it John Watson,_  he said internally,  _Sherlock Holmes is your brand new, custom tailored war zone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this last time, but the area they are being relocated to is actually the town I live in. This idea of them moving away came to me when I thought to myself that if a person ever wanted to disappear, this would be the perfect place. All the places I refer to are real!


	6. How Wonderful Life Is

Saturdays were officially the blessed day of the week. John was able to sit in the house, having a good lie-in while Sherlock puttered around doing experiments. John was currently sitting in the study reading when the doorbell rang. "John!" Sherlock bellowed from downstairs. John placed a bookmark to save his spot and hurried down the stairs, opening the door. He was greeted by a young woman with brown hair and a plate of cookies.

"Hello! I'm Lindsey; I live down the street and saw all the moving vans. I wanted to bring a housewarming gift!"

John took the plate from the woman, "thank you! That was really nice of you."

"It was my pleasure, maybe I'll see you around, have a good weekend."

"You too," John replied, trying not to laugh at the way she bounded down the steps and up the road. John shut the door, turning towards the kitchen to take the cookies.

"Who was it?" Sherlock demanded, looking up from where John stood in the doorway.

"One of our neighbours, she brought cookies."

Sherlock grabbed the plate from John and studied it, looking for anything out of place.

"Do you really think Moriarty found us and sent poisoned cookies?"

"One can never be too sure," Sherlock scoffed, crumbling a cookie and dissolved it in a liquid. He placed a dropper under a microscope and studied it. He sniffed the rest of the cookies, picking up a couple and glaring at the chocolate chips as if they offended him. He tossed them back on the plate and shoved it towards John. "They're fine, you can eat them."

"So like I said, a neighbour brought a housewarming gift for us."

"I was merely making sure. You'll thank me later."

John shook his head, setting the plate on a part of the counter that wasn't littered with science equipment. "Did you bring the whole lab home with you yesterday?" John smiled, brushing against Sherlock as he neared to see what was bubbling in a beaker.

"You failed to produce my needed appendages, so yes, I brought as much of the lab as I could get."

John often felt like he was dealing with a petulant child. "Sherlock, how many times must I tell you, I can't go to the morgue and ask for body parts?"

"Molly let me have them when needed."

"According to you, Molly was borderline obsessed; she'd do anything to make you happy."

"Not the point John," Sherlock huffed.

"Kind of is. I'm not going to the morgue and saying, 'hey, mind if I get a few body parts for my flatmate?"

"Fine. Well then you have to deal with my equipment." Sherlock turned back to the items spread onto the table, grabbing a beaker and sloshing blue liquid onto the table top.

John turned away, pressing a hand to his forehead as he walked away. His mind supplied him with a  _you chose to move across the pond with him_  and John shook his head, wondering if he had made the right decision. Glancing over at Sherlock fluttering around the table, looking healthy and content, John knew that he had made the right choice and if faced with it all over he'd say yes again.

John grabbed yesterday's paper from the coffee table and spread it open, reading news about the areas surrounding the small town they had been plopped into. There were a few articles on the place Sherlock worked, about advancements they had run across and John would bet his right arm that every single one had Sherlock's name written all over it.

At about half one John's stomach began to growl, alerting him that lunch needed to be prepared soon. He shuffled over to the refrigerator and opened it, growling at the sparse items it contained. "Sherlock I'm going to run to the store quickly for a few necessities."

Sherlock grunted in response, bent over a microscope and John didn't know how he could stand to be doing something so close to work on a Saturday.

* * *

John was minding his own business in the dairy section when an older woman, he'd say early forties, sidled alongside him with her trolley. "You're that fellow who moved in with his husband across the road from me aren't you?"

John stared at her, unsure how to respond when he wasn't positive he'd actually seen the woman before. "Of course you are," she continued on. "You moved in with the gangly pale one in the obnoxious purple shirt."

John nodded, "yeah that'd be us, I'm Donald Greyson and the gangly one is my husband Alexander. We just moved here from Cardiff." John smiled and held out his hand.

The woman sniffed and looked at him as if he were a leper. "I see they let anyone move in around here now."

John wanted to punch her, getting angrier than he should have been, should have realised that a town this small would be set in their ways and god forbid if someone came to shake things up a bit. Instead of lashing out John quietly replied, "well if you feel that way then I will not extend the invitation for dinner sometime that I was about to, seeing as you possibly perceive me to be afflicted in some way. I do hope you have a lovely day though, I'm sure we'll see each other around." John twisted around her to grab a gallon of milk, breezing down the aisle and humming to himself.

* * *

John hefted the bags from the car into the kitchen and was greeted by the sounds of Sherlock plucking on violin strings. He put the few items that needed to be kept cold into the fridge and made his way into the living room where Sherlock sat opposite of none other than Gregory Lestrade.

John smiled, shaking Lestrade's hand and sitting next to Sherlock on the couch. "Any news of Moriarty?" he questioned, placing a hand on Sherlock's knee to stop the plucking.

"Nothing yet," Greg sighed, "and in this case, no news is most definitely not good news. There's nothing, not even a peep out of the man."

"He'll play his hand soon mind you," Sherlock cut in, eyes darkening. "Right now I'm sure he has his little sniper buddy ransacking John's and my flats, looking for clues and even has tried to contact Mycroft under some pretence. Moriarty is good, he's been making people disappear for a long time now, and it'll a take a genius to get him arrested."

"Well isn't it a good thing we've got you on the case," Lestrade snorted. "Plus, on top of being the most brilliant mind in the room, you're also the one he's looking for. We've got everything we need."

"Let's hope so," Sherlock sighed, placing his violin on the floor next to the couch. "I planted a few false clues at my place and instructed John to do the same. Hopefully those will keep him off the trail for now."

"I'm just hoping we can apprehend him before one of you gets hurt," Lestrade sighed and John could see lines of worry etched in his face.

"That won't happen," Sherlock insisted, leaning into John reflexively. "We're safer here than we were in London."

"Well, that's the truth." Lestrade rose from the chair, extending his hand towards us. "Mycroft sent me over just to check on you and get some well needed rest apparently. Said a short holiday may be just what I needed to recharge. Stay safe for me will you?"

John promised they'd keep their nose out of trouble as he ushered Lestrade out of the door. When they reached the porch though, Lestrade motioned for John to follow him out. "Look John, Donald, whatever, he's fragile. I know he may not look it, but I've been around him a lot longer than you have and I know what the man is capable of doing to himself. You take care of him, you hear me? I swear to god if one hair on his head is messed up when I come to escort you both home I will rip you a new one."

"You have nothing to worry about, I want nothing more than his happiness, why the hell would I be here if I didn't?"

"No bleeding idea, but I felt it necessary to warn you I will not resist the urge to hurt you if necessary."

"I got your message loud and clear," John huffed turning to re-enter the front door. "Have a good evening Detective Inspector."

Sherlock's head turned to John's direction as he stalked back into the living room. "What was that about?"

"Just Lestrade making sure I keep an eye on everything," he lied, not wanting Sherlock to know what the argument had been about. Then that was that and Sherlock was back at his experiments and John was cooking dinner, they a scene of their own special domesticity in a world where madmen chased after people and a single man ran the government.


	7. Some of These Verses Got Me Quite Cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence of the punching variety.

It was a normal day for John, he woke up, had tea and eggs, and had gone to work. From there he had treated a stream of patients, from a girl with strep throat to a man who had been shot by his best friend in a drunken brawl over a girl. The day had passed normally as well, patients going in and out, a few being admitted, a boring lunch with a couple of co-workers and one really interesting case that just might be Lupus.

It was a perfectly normal day for John. That was until he stepped off the lift and into the parking garage to get his car. He had passed between a few cars, the garage being mostly full this afternoon. He heard the car before he saw it and his first mistake was to think that Mycroft had come to visit, therefore letting his guard down. John's second mistake was to walk towards the car instead of ducking behind the closest SUV. Before he knew what was happening he was being pulled into the car while it was still rolling. John struggled, his soldier's instincts kicking in. It was no use, John realised as he was being forcibly handcuffed and shoved into a seat before a blindfold was placed over his eyes.

During the ride John sat quietly on the seat, taking in what he could. He heard the steady breathing of one man, a smoker John presumed by the smell of tobacco whenever the window would roll down slightly. The man had taken one call of which he had uttered three sentences, "yes, I have him," "ETA fifteen minutes," and "would you like to leave the blindfold on?" The answer to the last question must have been a no because John felt the man's hands at the back of his head loosen the knot and slip the blindfold off. John was greeted with the sight of a tall, sandy-haired man whose form practically screamed 'hired gun' at John.

He glanced out the window, fields rolling by outside darkly tinted windows and wondered where the hell they were going. "Is it trivial to ask where the hell I'm being taken?" John asked gruffly. The man seated across from him merely trained his steely blue eyes on John and stayed quiet, taking another drag on the fag in his mouth. John rested his head against the back of the seat and waited, one name rolling around in his head. Moriarty.

He felt really bloody stupid at the moment, having been taken captive when he had had ample time to duck and hide from the car, and even stupider for thinking it was Mycroft coming to check on them. He'd have sent some word of course, to let them know it was safe, but John had settled into this routine of whatever it was that he and Sherlock had together.

The car turned onto a small dirt road and they bumped their way through puddles and potholes, one causing the man across from John to shift slightly and he noticed the pistol shining in the holster attached to the man's trousers.  _Great,_  John thought,  _I'm stuck in a car with a mercenary, on my way to meet with a man revered as the greatest criminal mastermind of the world. Today really couldn't get much better could it?_

The car rolled to a stop in front of what john perceived to be an abandoned warehouse, or really large shed. The other man climbed out of the car, yanking John with him. "This way," the man said, steering John towards the large bay doors on the left. John followed the man through the door and into a large room that seemed to be a loading bay for some kind of business or farm. The man shoved John roughly into a metal folding chair and attached the handcuffs to it via a tie wrap.

John sat there for a good ten minutes he thought, trying to pull his hands out of the cuffs to no avail. He looked around the room, trying to glean any information any clue when suddenly his pocket began to vibrate. John was still dressed in the maroon scrubs he'd worn to the hospital and needed to get to his mobile.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing the living room, the line ringing until he reached John's voicemail. John was thirty minutes late and always texted Sherlock when he'd picked up an extra shift or had to stay late. Sherlock knew something was wrong but didn't want to call Mycroft yet. If it were Moriarty he would know something.

So he had to wait. Sherlock sank into the leather armchair John loved and waited.

* * *

John watched as a small form made its way through a door to his left. "Hello darling," a soft male voice spoke as the form neared. "I hate that we had to meet like this, thought maybe Sherlock would have me over for tea someday. I'm sure as you have guessed by now that I'm Jim Moriarty and you've already met my very trusted associate Sebastian Moran." Jim paused in front of John, just over an arm's length away. At that moment, John's phone began to vibrate again. "Oh, is that our dear Sherlock calling?" Jim smiled, fishing the phone out of John's pocket. He held it up, stroking it lovingly. "Should I answer it and say hello to him?" Jim stared at the letters scrolling across the phone, "Alexander Greyson, how cute, did Mycroft think of that? What did he name you John?"

"Donald," John growled, praying that Jim answered the phone so that he could say something to Sherlock, anything really so that Sherlock would know he was alive.

"No, no, no, I think I'll just send him a message, can't have his little lover saying something to him now can we?" Jim flipped open the mobile and typed quickly on the keyboard before slapping it shut. Jim moved around John, a hand sliding along his shoulders. "So what does Sherlock see in you that is more interesting than me? You certainly don't have my IQ but you've got a bit more muscle, wouldn't look good in suits I imagine, much too stocky for that. Hmmm, perhaps you're better endowed then I?" Moriarty glanced down at John's lap, an eyebrow rising in question.

"Don't even fucking think about it," John spat, ready to kick Moriarty if he dared touch him again.

Jim smiled cruelly and John felt like a fly caught in a spider's web. "Oh, don't worry John darling, I have someone of my own, Sherlock was just a bit of fun."

"A bit of fun?" John yelled, trying to pull the tie wrap off of the handcuffs. "You beat him you bastard. I swear to god, when he finds me I will put my hands around your throat and squeeze until you can no longer breathe!"

"My, my, what a temper you have! And so kind too, now I see why Sherlock likes you, you're spicy!" Moriarty leaned close to John, whispering in his ear, "are you this wild in the bed too John? Is this what you bring for a good fuck?"

John twisted away from Jim, as far as he could get without toppling himself over. "You're sick and perverted? Did you know that?"

Jim turned, that smile creeping across his face. "Tsk, tsk, John, never insult your captor, especially when they're masochistic. Sebby darling, would you like to do the honour?"

John turned his head to see the man from the car advancing towards him. Before John could register the movement, the butt of the man, Sebby, Moriarty had called him, was slamming the butt of his pistol into the side of John's head. John blinked against the pain, black spots floating in front of his eyes and pain radiating from the welt he knew was forming. He felt a trickle of blood start its way down his face and he blinked back tears, refusing to show any signs of weakness.  _Please god let Sherlock find me soon._

* * *

Sherlock jumped as his mobile buzzed in his hand and he saw a new text from John. He opened it quickly and temporarily forgot about breathing as he read it.  _Hello darling, it's daddy! I have your favourite toy with me here. Now here's a little clue for you to see if your mind can match my own. The side of the angels waits for your darling unless you find the key. Twenty-four hours._

Sherlock stared at the message, absolutely dumbfounded for the first time that he could remember. He had no idea what Jim meant by the key. He read the message ten times, including backwards and from right to left and still found nothing. He sank into the chair and sent one message back to John's phone, praying that something would come to him soon. He dialled the number to Mycroft's mobile and waited for him to pick up.

"I told you not to call me unless it was important," Mycroft said coolly.

"He has John," Sherlock said, trying not to choke on his emotions. Best if Mycroft didn't have anything to lord over him later on.

"What?" Mycroft nearly yelled into the phone and Sherlock could hear the squeak of his chair as Mycroft stood and grabbed his briefcase, readying himself for a flight.

"He has John, Mycroft, somewhere he has John and he is going to kill him if I don't play his twisted game. I need your help."

Mycroft almost lost it at the sound of Sherlock's voice breaking. "Let me call Gregory and we'll be on the jet as fast as possible. Keep trying to figure out what he wants from you."

Sherlock hung up the phone and stared at the message again, grabbing a piece of paper and writing the words down before tearing the paper into pieces so that each word was separate from the others. He spun them around in every conceivable order until he slumped onto the couch in defeat.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade was sitting at his desk; feet propped up, a cup of coffee in his hand and doughnut stuffed in his mouth. It had been a relatively quiet day so he was taking it easy, catching up on paperwork. His mobile began ringing and he cursed when he saw Mycroft Holmes' name flash across the screen. Greg stood from his chair and strode across the room to shut his office door. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear hitting the answer button. "What is it Mycroft?"

"It's Jim; he's abducted John and sent Sherlock a cryptic message. Get your go-bag; we need to get there as soon as possible. Meet me at Heathrow; they're getting my jet ready."

"Mycroft, where do I go?"

"Gate 1C, it's my personal gate, I bought it."

Lestrade was going to ask how exactly a person buys a gate at an International airport but thought better of it, grabbing his jacket, gun and handcuffs off his chair and motioning for Donovan. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"See you then." Mycroft disconnected the phone and sat back against the leather interior of his car, hoping Gregory was smart enough to use the sirens.

Lestrade filled Donovan in, telling her she'd be his number one until he got back from the States. She nodded and told him she could take him in a cruiser. Lestrade grabbed the go-bag he'd prepared at Mycroft's urging in case something like this happened. He followed Donovan to the car and told her to step on it as she flipped on the lights and siren. Lestrade mulled over the thought of whether it was an abuse of power before reminding himself that John was very much in danger and the faster they could reach him the better off the man would be.

He arrived at Heathrow four minutes earlier than planned and ran inside, stopping only when he realised he had no ticket to get through security.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Anthea said, walking up to him and pressing a card into his hand that looked like something government issued with his name and picture on it. "Mycroft said this will get you through any security check you need. Good luck."

Lestrade nodded at her and took off in the direction of the security queue. He was thankful it was the middle of a Tuesday and there were only two people in front of him. He showed the ID to the security and they merely nodded, allowing Lestrade through without a second glance. It was moments like these that he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to know exactly how much power Mycroft held in the government. He followed the signs to Mycroft's gate, showed the ID to the lady sitting behind the desk and took off down the terminal. An assistant led him down the steps to the side and towards the jet parked a few metres away. He hurried up the stairs to find Mycroft sitting there nursing a brandy, looking a bit more dishevelled than usual. "Gregory."

Lestrade took the seat next to Mycroft and buckled the seatbelt as the engines roared to life as the plane was given clearance to take off. Lestrade glanced around the cabin, taking in the plush leather seats, wooden accents, large television screens and mini bar in the back. "Mycroft, do you think we'll get to him in time?" Lestrade asks the question that's been plaguing his mind since Mycroft had called, wondering if they really can save John.

"You know how he is, the work he can do, he'll save John, he has to." Mycroft sips at his drink again and rests a hand on Lestrade's as the plane starts down the runway. "I hate to admit it but I think John's good for him. You said so yourself after your visit."

"He has, Sherlock was happier and healthier than I've ever seen him. He wasn't even wearing a nicotine patch. I would've thought someone mental though if they'd told me and I hadn't seen it. I mean, you're his brother, you know how he was." Lestrade took Mycroft's hand in his, holding onto it tightly. "He's one of the two smartest men I've ever met My, let's just hope his heart doesn't get in the way of his mind."

Mycroft smiled sadly over at Lestrade. "My dear Detective Inspector, it seems you have hit the proverbial nail on the head. Sherlock is still trying to figure out what makes John different from all the other people in his life. He needs to worry about Moriarty now though, not John. As long as he focuses on finding Moriarty and not what state John is in, he'll be fine."

"Do you think we'll be able to arrest him? Moriarty?"

"I bloody well hope so. Now, maybe we should get some sleep. Five hour time difference and all that. We'll need to be rested when we get there."

Lestrade rested his head against the seat, Mycroft's hand in his still. His eyes closed as he hoped they'd find John alive and well and get to Moriarty, the bastard. Lestrade wanted nothing more than to get the slimy git in handcuffs and take him personally down to the smallest holding cell at the Yard and leave him there for a few days, see how prim and proper he is then. He'd probably get off on it. Lestrade pushed thoughts of Moriarty out of his mind and fell asleep; he'd need his strength later.

Once Mycroft knew Lestrade was sleeping soundly he pulled out a mobile and dialled a series of numbers before pressing the phone to his ear and listening to the ring. He waited until a voice spoke before grinning into the phone. "Yes, Agent Mycroft Holmes, 999. I have a request for Senior Agent Rolfe. I need a helicopter, S.W.A.T. team and four agents to set up a home base at the following address." Mycroft read off the address to Sherlock's home and let the agent on the other line repeat everything he had just said. "Correct. I need them mobilised when I get there, oh-six-hundred. Yes, a matter of international security. Right, number 001. Thank you Agent Crawford." Mycroft hit the end button on the mobile and slipped it back into the discreet pocket of his suit. One more thing taken care of. Oh, they would catch Moriarty this time.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the pieces of paper on the coffee table again, a pair of John's pyjama pants on, too short for him but he didn't care. He'd been staring at the words off and on all day, trying to decipher Moriarty's message. What did he mean by key? He had to keep looking, to find out what Moriarty meant so that when his brother and Lestrade arrived they would be ready to go, to rescue John.

By the time his brother got there he'd be already almost halfway out of time and so he needed to figure out where to lead his brother and whatever army Mycroft had wrangled out of the American government.

It was going to be a long day, that much was sure, Sherlock realised as he started staring at the words one by one, trying to pull some sort of meaning out of them.

* * *

John's headache was starting to ebb when Jim returned, Sebby, if that really was his name, still unmoving in his corner.

"Sebastian darling, I've got news that Mycroft Holmes is on his way with his dear DI Lestrade. I'm a little bit cross right now so I do hope you don't mind if I spoil your fun for a bit."

John looked over at Sebastian and saw him nod, a smirk forming on the man's lips as Jim walked closer to John.  _Oh god what now?_  The slap was stinging against his left cheek before John had fully registered that Jim had lifted his hand, not expecting the blow. The next one he saw and braced himself a bit before Jim hit him again, right side this time and John's eyes began to water.

"What a strong soldier you are! How many men did you kill John, how many people died at your hand?" Jim purred as he smoothed a hand across John's cheek.

"I was a medic, not a sniper," John growled, his eyes flickering over to where Sebastian stood in the dark shadows.

Jim smiled and seated himself across John's lap. "Yes, but I also know you were one of the best in the class on the shooting range. A man with a gun, now that's sexy," Jim sneered at him, wiggling slightly against John.

"Get off me you fucker," John snarled, bucking his hips to try and make Jim tumble to the floor.

"Tsk, John, you're being bad again." Jim waved a finger in front of John's face but slid off his lap before punching him in the mouth. John felt his bottom lip split and checked that all of his teeth were still intact. He watched as Jim inspected his hand, small flecks of John's blood on it.

"I hate getting my hands dirty," Jim sighed. "Sebby darling, hand me a handkerchief please."

John felt his head spinning at the way Jim talked, almost as if he actually cared for the mercenary. He watched in silence as the man left the shadows and handed Jim a piece of white cloth. "I think we're done for now, Sebastian, you'll keep an eye on the good doctor won't you? I need to get ready for Sherlock's impending doom."

Sebastian nodded and sat in a folding chair a few metres away from John as Jim left the room.


	8. So Excuse Me Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : So this turned out to be less of a crossover and more of just a mention of Moulin Rouge, but hey, Sherlock and John wanted it differently and Moriarty is enjoying his part immensely. Two more chapters and we are done! I appreciate all the reads, reviews, and kudos. You guys are what helps me write.

Sherlock hadn't slept all night and was staring at the scraps of paper, hoping something, anything, would come out of it. He had even put the phrase into Google to see if it was from something but his search returned a whole bunch of rubbish, nothing helpful at all.

Sherlock was pacing the room when he heard the car pull up outside. He looked out the window and watched as a black car rolled up the driveway followed by what seemed to be an armada of military vehicles. As the cars drove onto the driveway and yard, finding places to park, Sherlock opened the door for his brother and Lestrade. "About bloody time you two got here."

"Sherlock, the plane can only fly as fast as regulations allow," Mycroft smiled, placing two briefcases on the table and pulling out a laptop and a thick manila envelope. Mycroft opened the laptop and with a few keystrokes was connected to the FBI mainframe.

"I'm not even going to ask," Lestrade sighed, sitting in a chair.

Sherlock watched as man after man piled out of the vehicles while a FBI mobile unit pulled into the yard, tearing up grass and dirt. Sherlock heard the distant noise of a helicopter and looked over at Mycroft who seemed to be in a face-to-face conference call with the FBI director himself. He smiled at the look on Lestrade's face, the man obviously unaware of how many titles Mycroft truly held. Sherlock only knew of a handful including MI-6, FBI, CIA, and possibly Mafia and Yakuza connections. Now wasn't the time to handle Lestrade's crisis at his lover- or whatever title he and Mycroft gave one another- being a man of many faces, he needed to find John. He had twelve hours to figure out the clue and find John before Moriarty killed John and Sherlock couldn't handle that.

"They're ready to leave whenever you are sir," an S.W.A.T. agent said to Mycroft who had just finished his call and was looking through the manila folder.

"Good, is the mobile unit up and running? I want the chopper team up and in the air, a fifteen mile radius of the area as soon as possible."

"Yes sir." The agent left and Sherlock watched as he jogged towards the mobile unit.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, turning towards his brother and shutting the folder. "I know you've been up all night and by the frantic look in your eyes you've gone over whatever clue Moriarty has sent you. Now I know it's hard, but you need to remember to think about the clue, not John and his well-being, that's what will lead us to him."

"I'm just worried and you know that isn't me and I don't know what to do about it," Sherlock's eyes were open and honest and Mycroft was caught off-guard by the emotion in his brother's voice.

Mycroft motioned for Lestrade and asked him to make three cups of tea and sat on the couch, Sherlock sitting in John's recliner. "Perhaps it's time for me to be the brother I should have been. Now Sherlock, I need to know everything you can tell me about James Moriarty."

Sherlock huffed, "where do I even begin?"

"You could start at the beginning."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Lestrade brought in a tray and set it on the small coffee table, the newspaper John had glanced at was still sitting open to the Life section. Sherlock took the cup as his brother passed it to him, taking a sip before launching into his story. "Most of this you already know, probably is sitting in the folder. I first met Jim the day you told me to get out. I was lying on a park bench, trembling from the detox when he walked by and stopped, giving me just enough to take the edge off so that I would be able to focus on what he said. He asked me if I wanted to start over, a second chance of sorts. He said he would help me find work; get me back to a better life. I trusted him; he seemed sincere so I went with him, having nowhere else to go." Sherlock paused, steeling himself for the next part, knowing it was going to be the hardest on his brother.

Mycroft had his hand clasped in Lestrade's, wondering if somehow this whole ordeal wasn't his fault. He had kicked Sherlock out in hopes that he would come to his senses and quit the cocaine habit so that he could live to his potential.

"After that," Sherlock continued, "I found myself in a metal cage, locked away as Jim forced a detox, only giving me food and water to sustain me through the detoxification. After that," Sherlock paused, swallowing hard. "After that he explained to me how I would be his plaything. Every night I was to meet him at the Moulin Rouge, room thirteen, to pleasure him. I was allowed to roam freely during the days, the threat of your death and others looming over my head at all times. I went and helped Lestrade for fun, anything that I needed money for was provided by Jim. He, um how much do you need to know?"

Mycroft gaped at his brother, the idea that Sherlock had been a prisoner so close to where he and Lestrade had been having fun was enough to make his stomach roll. "As much as you're willing to give."

Sherlock nodded and pushed on with the story. "He would beat me and then have sex, it was hell. That was, until I met John. I would say it was an accident, but Mr James had set it up somehow, I think he felt bad for me. I erm, think we all know about John though so I'll skip over that. Jim has a colleague, possible lover, named Sebastian Moran. He's a trained mercenary and I know he's the one that would have kidnapped John. Look at the hospital parking deck for clues, John's car should still be there. I don't know much more, Moriarty more or less left me in the dark about most things, probably in case something like this happened."

Mycroft nodded his head in understanding and asked Lestrade to tell the FBI team to go to the hospital and check for anything they could find. As soon as Lestrade had left the room, Mycroft's carefully constructed resolve crumbled and he looked at Sherlock sadly. "I'm so sorry Sherlock, I had no idea what would happen. All of this is my fault. Please forgive me brother."

"Mycroft, you didn't know, you wouldn't have done it if you knew Moriarty would find me."

"I should have tried to help you more, to know that I was so close to you and doing nothing, Sherlock I-"

"Don't. I don't want apologies and sentiment, I want you to find him and destroy him. I- I think maybe I want to make a new life with John, take cases from the Yard, help them out a bit."

"Sherlock, you barely know John how can you say you'd want to live with him?"

"I know him a lot better than you do," Sherlock said, standing and pacing.

"It's stupid Sherlock, you don't know we'll find him in-"

"Don't you even think of saying it Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted, turning and glaring at his brother. "I will find him, whether you help or not, I will figure out what Moriarty means and I will get there and I will save John." Sherlock grabbed the pieces of paper and stalked up the stairs to the office, slamming the door and locking it.

* * *

John was sitting in the metal chair, legs going numb from disuse and head throbbing in pain from where he had been hit. Sebastian sat across from him, idly picking a piece of lint from the black tee shirt he wore. John pulled against his restraints again, hoping he had loosened them, but no such luck. Jim had taken his mobile and although Sebastian stood a good twenty metres away, John felt very alone.

His mind wandered and he wondered if Sherlock had put aside his issues with Mycroft and called him for help or if he was pacing around their house, trying to figure out whatever Moriarty had sent him. John was tired, weariness settling into his body but he couldn't sleep for fear of what Moriarty would do to him. John wasn't really even sure why he was alive at all. If the point had been to teach them a lesson, shouldn't Moriarty have killed him as soon as they arrived at the warehouse? Maybe it was a sick, twisted game Moriarty was playing with Sherlock which made John twice as angry as he already was. What was Moriarty playing at? He had made Sherlock's life a living hell, taking everything from the man, breaking him down and now he was playing this sick masochistic game. John had never wanted to murder someone with his bare hands more than this prick.

* * *

 _Eleven hours_ the text message read and Sherlock had the urge to toss it across the room. "I bloody well know how long I have," he growled, sinking back down onto the sofa and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Mycroft had had the FBI unit try and trace John's phone but the GPS had been disabled and unless Jim called, which Sherlock knew wouldn't happen; there was no way of tracing it.

"Moaning and groaning and abusing the furniture are not going to help," Mycroft sighed, glancing at his brother. "Come on Sherlock,  _think_. I've seen you solve cases harder than this!"

"You think that I'm not doing my best? That I'm not using every bit of my brain towards how to find John? Because I am Mycroft, I am putting every bit of me into figuring out this sodding clue Moriarty left and now he's taunting me with a bloody hour countdown!" Sherlock stormed away from Mycroft, seething at how the older man appeared so calm and collected when John could be going through any type of torture at Jim or Sebastian's hands.

* * *

John heard a door opening somewhere in his vicinity and struggled to keep his eyes open. He was going on almost twenty-four hours of no sleep, with work and now this. According to his watch he'd been in this metal box for over fourteen hours and was slowly losing his grip on hope of being found alive. His head hurt, his arms hurt from being cuffed to the chair, and his lip hurt from where it had split when Moriarty punched him. John mainly just wanted a hot cuppa to dull the pain from his shoulder; the area where he'd been shot in Afghanistan was throbbing in pain.

"Hello John, daddy's back," Moriarty giggled as he came into view of John.

"Well isn't this a lovely treat," John spat and was regarded crossly by the shorter man.

Moriarty loomed over John in their respective positions, Moriarty not being a particularly tall man, especially when in comparison to the sniper Sebastian. "Oh John, always so testy, I'm glad to see you haven't given up, still think you have a fighting chance. Which you don't by the way," Moriarty continued, pulling over a second metal folding chair. "You see, even if Sherlock solves the clue, he's still going to die. When he comes to rescue you I'm going to personally shoot him in the heart."

"He's got Mycroft, I'm betting the man has pull with both MI-6 and the FBI," John answered, looking Moriarty in the eye, challenging him.

Moriarty smiled, "that he does. But see, I know a lot more about Sherlock Holmes than you do. Once he figures out the clue, and I'm sure he will, he'll come racing after you. Not because you're special to him, don't think that Johnny dear, but because he wants to be right, to find you on his own without his brother dearest. So when he shows up alone, I'll be waiting for him."

"He's too smart to fall into your trap Moriarty. He's brighter than that." John knew Moriarty was right, he knew Sherlock better, but John liked to think that the months John had lived with Sherlock, that they meant something and that John knew enough about Sherlock to know the man wouldn't do anything extremely stupid.

"Oops, maybe I lied," Moriarty laughed. "You see, you John Watson, mean something to Sherlock, whether an experiment or not, you're valuable to him and he's going to protect you at all costs, so when he comes to collect you I will be waiting."

John growled in frustration at the man, wanting to kick him but Moriarty was out of his reach.

"Ta-ta for now Johnny boy, I'm going to leave you here with Sebby, not like you were going anywhere anyway. I do hope Sherlock figures out the clue soon; I'd hate to have to kill you before you got to watch me kill him."

"What would be the point of killing me before Sherlock got here?"

Moriarty smirked viciously, "because I am a man of my word John Watson. If I didn't kill you when I said I would then no one would hire me now would they?"

John watched as the man left the room grinning, stopping only to whisper something in Sebastian's ear as he passed and was answered with a nod from the taller man.

* * *

Lestrade was hovering between Sherlock and Mycroft, neither of whom was speaking to the other. He didn't pretend to understand the relationship between the two, but he did know that if they were to rescue John that the Holmes brothers would have to put aside their differences and work together.

"Mycroft, may I have a word with you in the kitchen please?" Lestrade asked, head nodding in the direction of the small kitchen.

"Don't bother Lestrade. If he won't listen to me, he won't listen to you," Sherlock bemoaned from his position on the leather armchair.

"One moment please, Gregory," replied Mycroft, ignoring his lamenting brother.

Mycroft typed a few more lines before shutting his laptop and leaving into the kitchen behind Lestrade. "If you're going to tell me I over-reacted, I know. It's Sherlock, you have to with him. He's my brother and I do love him dearly, but I have to keep him on point."

"Mycroft, imagine for a moment that I was the one kidnapped. You can stand here and look me in the eye and tell me that you would have no problem with Sherlock reminding you I may not be found in time?"

Mycroft paused for a moment, figuring out how best to answer the question without offending Gregory. "Greg, I would not be chuffed to hear it, no, but if it helped keep me on task then I would welcome it."

Lestrade shook his head and sighed, "I know, but think of everything he's gone through, yeah? Cut him a little slack, you know he'll get it, he always does."

"Romance is bad for him Gregory, he'll let it cloud his judgement, I never even knew he had a preference, he's been into his work so much I would have penned him as asexual."

Lestrade rested his hand on Mycroft's arm. "Maybe it just took him the right person to figure it out."

The remark hit Mycroft as Lestrade had hoped, he could see the man's resolve crumble slightly. They were the same words Mycroft had told Gregory on their second date when Greg had questioned Mycroft as to why him.

"Fine Gregory, I will speak with him if it will make you feel better."

"Thank you My," Greg grinned, kissing Mycroft lightly on the corner of his mouth before sweeping out of the room and out to where the FBI unit was set up.

Mycroft re-entered the sitting room, making his way over to where Sherlock was still sulking. "Sherlock, I want to apologise for what I said earlier. I was, out of line."

Sherlock's head swivelled as his eyes met his brother's. "Apology ignored and not accepted," he grimaced, turning back to the now wrinkled pieces of paper he had written Moriarty's clue on.

Mycroft breathed in heavily through his nose before reclaiming his seat on the couch. He opened his laptop and began clicking away on the keyboard.

Suddenly Sherlock began rustling through the newspapers on the table noisily and at first Mycroft thought it was to annoy him. Glancing at his brother though, Mycroft saw the look in Sherlock's eye when hunting a clue or trail he had previously overlooked and Mycroft shut his laptop. "Looking for something?"

"Wasn't there a manufacturing plant closure a few weeks back in the area? The name started with an A didn't it?" Sherlock tore through the papers, looking for an article he had seen. "Aha! Here it is," he cried triumphantly, holding the page up. "Angel Cake Company closes its doors after over 50 years of production. The company sold out to Keystone snacks!"

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock, "see I told you that if you focused on it, you would figure it out."

"Stop telling me what I already know and get the team of agents mobilised Mycroft! What use are you if you don't get anything done?"

Mycroft sighed in the direction of his brother as he lifted himself from the couch. "We'll have him safe in no time, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited until Mycroft was out the door before grabbing his coat and car keys. "I don't trust the sodding American government to do anything right. John will be dead before they get the team ready," he mumbled to himself as he hit the garage door opener and accelerated out of the door. He saw men waving frantically and caught a glimpse of Mycroft yelling at a group of men. This was one way to get them mobilised into action. Sherlock also didn't trust them and wanted to make sure John was safe. It was his fault John was in this mess anyway, he certainly had to be the one to fix it.


	9. I've Forgotten If They're Green or They're Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence/Character Death in this chapter.

Mycroft was livid. As soon as he saw his brother leaving in the car he knew Sherlock was doing something stupid. He had been mobilizing the FBI team to get a unit out as soon as possible and should have known Sherlock would leave without his knowing. Now Mycroft was faced with a kidnapped civilian, a civilian with a God-complex, a criminal mastermind, and a first-class, ex-military sniper. Almost a normal Thursday for Mycroft Holmes, though he was usually dealing with unruly diplomatic leaders, not his brother.

The FBI had wanted to use the helicopter to get to the warehouse before Sherlock, but Mycroft had given them a firm no, not wanting to give Moriarty a heads up before they could get men around the perimeter. Mycroft climbed into the passenger seat of one of the SUVs and waited until the unit chief was ready to head out. The unit chief, McNelson had wanted Mycroft to stay behind but with one call to headquarters he had been assigned a gun and sent to the chief's SUV. Now they were awaiting coordinates and would be off as soon as the convoy was ready.

Mycroft situated himself in the passenger seat of the SUV and was jamming the redial button repeatedly, knowing already that his brother would not answer the calls. He sighed as he reached the automated voice telling him that the number he had dialed wasn't there at the moment and decided to leave a message. "Sherlock, if you have any neuron firing in that massive brain of yours then you know that you are on a suicide mission. I have forces mobilizing now to take Moriarty out and bring John in safely." Mycroft hit the end button right as the team began to pull out, two SUVs and an S.W.A.T. truck forming a convoy towards their destination.

 _I don't trust them to keep him safe_ was the text Mycroft received from his brother and it set his blood to boiling. How dare Sherlock waste his life for this man who was short of spectacular, so common in name and personality that Sherlock could have him replaced in a moment's notice. Mycroft had never been so livid at the thought that Sherlock would risk life and limb for a man he barely knew, especially one as dull as this John who had been stupid enough to get himself kidnapped. Mycroft wanted nothing more at the moment to tell everyone to turn around and go home and let Sherlock get killed or kill Moriarty, John and Sebastian could fight it out as well, but Mycroft thought of Lestrade and what he would do in a situation like this. No, not lose his head like Sherlock had, but he would do everything in his far-reaching power to ensure the safety of his lover, including putting a bullet in the person's chest himself.

* * *

Sherlock was driving as fast as he could, keeping an eye out for signs of police, his brother's words ringing in his head. He could barely believe Mycroft would sit there and act like Sherlock should rely on the American task force. He wanted to have the pleasure of saving John from Jim, to make sure John knew that Sherlock could keep him safe. And there went another of the infernal thoughts Sherlock had been having lately, ever since John and he had discussed becoming a weird sort of couple thing. Sherlock had never been in a relationship really, the closest was whatever he was with Jim and Sherlock knew damn well not to base anything off one Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock had never been in love, never expected to fall in love, especially with a man like John. Of course, life had a funny way of making things happen when they were least expected, so here Sherlock was, driving thirteen miles over the speed limit, computing the miles to kilometers as he drove.

Sherlock pulled the car to the side of the road a few meters from the entrance to the abandoned warehouses, not wanting to alert Jim to his arrival. Sherlock climbed out of the car and slunk through the woods surrounding the warehouse. He heard the soft whispering of the wind through the leaves, the calling of a few birds, and the quiet crunch of the leaves and branches on the ground beneath his feet.

He made his way to the side of the large metal building, rust starting to form in the upper corners of the walls. He glanced around for any sign of movement. He noticed three doors, one on the far left that hadn't been opened and two on the right, both of which had been used. He counted three sets of footprints, one were Jim's, the other belonging to Sebastian, and the final to John, the man having been partially dragged into the warehouse.

Sherlock slinked around to the side of the building, towards the less used of the two doors, the one they had dragged John in through. He knew that Jim would expect him to enter through the most frequently door, knowing that John wouldn't be near this door, so he was banking on the fact that John would in turn, be very close to this door. He pressed his ear to the cool metal and listened intently, hearing nothing. Sherlock tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. He pushed on it lightly, the door swinging open, creaking loudly in the silence of the warehouse. Sherlock slipped through the crack, glancing around the corner before moving into the hallway.

* * *

John watched as Jim silently instructed Sebastian to move two chairs next to John in the center of the room. John struggled as Sebastian shoved a strip of cloth into his mouth, tying it at the back. John tried to kick him, resulting in almost tipping himself over. He settled for glaring at Jim who was sitting next to him, watching the door to the room intently. "Sherlock's here John, you shining knight came to save you. Too bad I have to kill him, he was such fun."

John strained to hear any noise that would alert him of Sherlock's presence. He began to try and formulate a way to make some sort of noise to send Sherlock n a different direction, to keep him out of harm's way.

"Don't even think about making any noise John," Jim said, grinning malevolently at John. "I'll shoot both of you if I hear a single sound."

John glared at him, promising to kill the man via strangulation if he made it out of this ordeal alive.

* * *

Mycroft stared out the windshield of the SUV as they neared the warehouse, the GPS bleeping faster as they neared the site. Mycroft curled his hand around the pistol he had been issued, concerned that he might put a bullet in his brother for being so damn stupid in this situation. He glanced into the rearview mirror and caught Lestrade's eye, the Detective Inspector quiet, shoved between two FBI men. Mycroft had allowed Gregory to come on the condition that the DI stayed in the vehicle, not wanting to put Gregory in the line of fire. If Mycroft cared, he'd think about how hypocritical it seemed that he did what he could to keep Gregory safe, yet scoffed at his brother for wanting to protect John.  _Yes, but I'm not running in unarmed after a madman for Greg_  Mycroft thought to himself as the vehicles slowed to make the turn.

* * *

Sherlock followed the scuff patterns in the dust lining the floor down a hallway, listening for any noise that would give away John or anyone out to kill him. The tracks led Sherlock to another door which he pressed his ear against and upon hearing no noise, pressed the door open enough to look in. Once he knew the coast was clear he entered what seemed to be another hallway and began tracing the steps once again.

Sherlock wondered if it was a trap he was being led to, most likely if you knew Jim which Sherlock did. He tracked the footprints to yet another door, but when he pressed his ear to the metal he heard low talking coming from the other side.

* * *

"He should be here any moment now," Jim grinned as he palmed the .45 in his hand. Sebastian sat on the opposite side of John, gripping his own pistol.

John heard the slight squeak of the door as someone pressed against it. He shut his eyes, praying that Sherlock would turn around and leave, that the man would value his own life more than John's.

* * *

Mycroft followed the Commander towards the door to the right of the building, the dirt having been shifted recently. They had two other teams hitting the other doors to the building, not allowing for any error. Mycroft had slid a Kevlar vest over his suit and was one step behind the unit commander, needing to be the one to cuff Moriarty, or kill the man if necessary.

* * *

Sherlock knew this was it, could practically feel John through the door. His hand rested on the handle of the door, knowing that he most likely would not come back through this door alive. He had come to terms with the fact that he would die on the drive to the warehouse. He had gotten John into this mess and he would do everything in his power to get John out of it.

Sherlock breathed in and twisted the doorknob, the metal turning easily and he forced it open, ready to face his fate.

* * *

Mycroft was moving swiftly through the hallway, ears open, listening for any sound of his brother or John. He heard only the sound of boots against concrete and the breathing of the men around him. They followed the winding hallways, hot on Sherlock's trail, following the man's footprints.

* * *

"Hello Sherlock, so good to see you, daddy's missed you," Moriarty sing-songed, twirling the pistol in his hand before pointing it at John's head. "If you have any weapons you need to place them on the floor now."

"I have no weapons," Sherlock stated, wanting to run and untie John and take him as far away from Jim as he could get.

"Oh, your brother couldn't even spare you a gun? Speaking of which, where is Mycroft, you seem so small Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored Jim's words, instead mentally assessing John, making sure the doctor was alright. He noticed the black eye, swelling around the temple, and a dark gash on John's head and suddenly saw red. "What the hell did you do to him?" Sherlock yelled, advancing on Jim as Sebastian rose from the folding chair he was seated on.

"Tsk, tsk Sherlock," Jim scolded, "I had so hoped not to have to dispatch you this quickly, but seeing as you can't control your temper." Jim pulled the trigger, aiming for Sherlock's heart. He smiled with sadistic glee as blood sprayed onto his suit and John, Sherlock's blood dotting the doctor's jacket.

John stood there, shocked as Sherlock's body crumpled to the floor, a shout of John's name dying in the open air. John felt tears well up in his eyes as he saw Sherlock's breathing shallow, the life draining out of the man.

* * *

Mycroft heard the gunshot and his heart sank. Neither Sherlock nor John had been armed; one of them was now dead, or close to it. He pushed through the door that the sound had some from behind to see Sherlock lying on the floor, blood starting to pull around him. He tore his eyes away from his brother as he saw movement in his peripheral. "Don't think about it," he growled, training his pistol on Moriarty's chest. "Put the gun down."

Jim laughed, flailing the pistol in the air. "I killed the great Sherlock Holmes! He could have done so much, gone so far in life, but I ended it, I ended him!"

Mycroft didn't hesitate as he put a bullet through Moriarty's heart. Two S.W.A.T. men took down Sebastian, handcuffing him as Mycroft ran to Sherlock. He motioned for someone to untie John and suddenly the doctor was by his side, assessing Sherlock's wounds. "He missed the heart but I can't tell if he clipped the cardioid artery or not. He needs a surgeon now."

Mycroft stepped away from the men and called for the helicopter to come, and fast. He turned to see John cradling Sherlock's head in his lap, tears running down the doctor's face.

Lestrade rested a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, wanting to comfort the man. "He's going to be fine Mycroft."

"I shot him Gregory. He got the easy way out. Jim Moriarty deserves to rot in hell."

"I'd rather him be dead and you alive," Greg answered, pulling Mycroft into a hug.

Mycroft returned the embrace as the medics rushed in to strap Sherlock to a stretcher, taking his vitals as they rushed him out and into the waiting helicopter. Moriarty was zipped into a body bag as Commander McNelsom walked over to Mycroft. "You understand Mr Holmes that we're going to have to question you."

Mycroft turned on his heel, pressing a finder into McNelson's chest. "Listen here Commander, I can spend three minutes on the phone and have you demoted back to office work. I am going to the hospital, I am going to make sure my brother lives, and then if anyone deems it necessary to ask me why I protected myself from a lunatic waving a gun then I will be happy to field all questions with my lawyer present." Mycroft turned away from the man and grabbed Gregory's arm, leading the DI out the door and into the waiting car to take them to the hospital.


	10. Now You're In the World

Mycroft felt helpless for the first time in his life as he watched the surgeons work on his brother. He had bullied his way into the operation room and was now clad in a full sterilised suit including hairnet, face mask, and booties. He felt that there was way too much blood leaving his brother and not enough entering the man's body.

"Mr Holmes," one of the surgeons half-yelled through his mask, "we've retrieved the bullet and are repairing the artery now. As long as we get blood into him he'll be fine."

Mycroft wanted to crumple to the floor in relief but knew they weren't quite there yet. Sherlock would have to stay in the hospital for quite a few nights and would be a pain in the arse to all of the orderlies. He briefly thought about asking John to stay with him, but the doctor had been through so much because of Sherlock that Mycroft wanted to let the man leave. He wouldn't blame John if he walked out of the hospital and never looked back; Sherlock alone was the type of person that you couldn't be around for a long time before you wanted to punch him in the mouth. John had had to deal with leaving his home and job to move thousands of miles to a completely different country only to be kidnapped by the world's greatest criminal mastermind. John deserved a quiet, normal life.

Mycroft made his way to John's room, he had made sure John was kept overnight for observation, much to John's dismay. Mycroft pushed open the door and sat in the bedside chair, the plastic squeaking. There were flowers in the windowsill from some of the staff he had worked with; most of them relieved to see John was alive. "He's going to survive," Mycroft said quietly, looking at the wall opposite of him, unable to look at John.

"That's great," John said, relaxing. He had been on edge ever since he had been shoved into an ambulance, gunshots still ringing in his head. He'd been surprised it hadn't set off his PTSD, he had thought of Sherlock instead, the time they had made love on the couch in Baker Street. Baker Street, John thought, sadness expanding in his chest, would he ever be able to go to Baker Street again, and if so, would Sherlock come with him? "No, really, that's wonderful," he smiled, relief flooding through him as the words sunk in.

Mycroft chanced a look at John who was grinning from his position in the bed. "Yes, well I believe they will release you tomorrow, so you'll be free to go."

"I'm not leaving him," John replied sternly. "I'll sleep in one of these horrible recliners if I have to. Sherlock cannot be left alone in this hospital, he'll have the entire staff quitting in a day."

"I understand you feel the need to make sure he is okay, but my brother does not do well with other people John. Eventually they all leave. He's a menace to be around, you've live with him, you know how he is."

"Yeah, I bloody well know how he is Mycroft, I've lived with him for a while and I'm not going to leave him in a bloody hospital by himself dammit," John replied angrily, his heart monitor beeping faster as his temper rose.

Mycroft studied John, the clear blue eyes, the shoulders set squarely, the rise and fall of John's chest. He didn't want John to do this for anyone except himself, didn't want John to think he had to stay. "My brother will be watched over; I could even stay with him for a bit unless something extremely important comes up."

"No." John shook his head, trying to get Mycroft to understand he wasn't going anywhere without Sherlock. "I just found that most amazing man, Mycroft, I'm not going to lose him now."

Mycroft's mouth was set in a grim line, John's objections rattling him. No one had ever lifted a finger to help Sherlock, himself included if he were honest, yet here was this man, so plain, so ordinary, ready to take on a task so ridiculously difficult that Mycroft had expected him to wave goodbye as he caught the next flight back to London. Maybe John Watson wasn't so ordinary at all. "I could ask them to put him in this room, get them to leave the bed in here for you. It'll probably be a while before Sherlock is able to leave, he was very close to dying."

"I know that, I saw him get shot, I am a doctor."

"Yes, of course John, I was merely saying that you would have to live off hospital food for a while."

"Better than the MREs they serve in the Army," John laughed as Mycroft rose from his chair.

"I wouldn't know. Now I must go get everything settled for you and Sherlock. I'll send a set of tickets for you when they release him. Will you be returning to Baker Street?"

"Yeah, and if Sherlock wants he's welcome there too."

Mycroft dipped his head in understanding and turned to leave the room, pausing momentarily to add, "Right, well I do hope you get better John, I'll be seeing you sometime I'm sure."

John watched as Mycroft left the room, resting his head back on the pillow, the morphine in the drip bag next to his bed lulling him into sleep.

* * *

John opened his eyes slowly, yawning as the evening light hit his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep but as he rolled his head to the left he saw another bed in his room. John sat up, trying to get a glimpse of Sherlock. John stood from the bed, stretching carefully as not to upset his tubes and assorted monitors. He pulled the rack with his fluids and medicine over to the side of Sherlock's bed, sitting in the chair next to it. He took in the paleness of Sherlock's skin, the light rise and falls of Sherlock's chest and sent up a prayer that Sherlock was alive. "I don't know if you can hear me Sherlock but thank you. Thank you for making it to me on time, thank you for saving me, but most of all, thank you for letting me fall in love."

"Synapses must be misfiring for you to love me," Sherlock mumbled, eyes fluttering open to take in John's face. He winced at the bruises and cuts on John's face, Moriarty's knuckles having left separate marks on John's face. "I'm so sorry for everything John."

"Don't be," John whispered, fingers ghosting over Sherlock's forehead. "I'm just glad you're alive."

"Calculated the bullet path and the trajectory of my body, seems I was a few centimetres off though," Sherlock smirked.

John shook his head at the man; anyone that said Sherlock was incapable of love should be ashamed of themselves. "You're incredible you know that Sherlock?"

"And yet you're here next to me even though it's my fault you were kidnapped. I would have thought you would be on an aeroplane to Heathrow right now,"

"And leave you in America by yourself? You'd have the nurses on strike in a few hours."

"You know John, you saved me, I never got to thank you properly," Sherlock pronounced, smiling up at John.

"Quite alright Sherlock, you can thank me when we get home, that is if you want to come to Baker Street with me." John looked at the pillow, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"John, it sounds mental, but I do. Perhaps we could even work together you and I, I always could use a medical opinion. I mean, obviously I love you, endorphins and all that, so it's obvious I should move in since you're offering."

John relaxed in the chair, looking at Sherlock and smiling. A tap at the door pulled John's attention away from Sherlock and John stood from the chair and trundled over to the door. He opened it to find Mycroft standing there. "John, may I have a word please?"

John slipped out the door and shut it after glancing back at Sherlock to see the slender man had fallen asleep. "What is it Mycroft?"

"So you and Sherlock? Heading back to Baker Street?"

"It seems so," John answered, leaning against the door.

Mycroft leaned against his umbrella, regarding John solemnly. "John, I need to know what your intentions are with my brother. He's not like most other people. I've never seen him get emotionally attached to someone before."

"My intentions are to date your brother and probably marry him Mycroft. We were fake married for months and I didn't get tired of him then. I love him Mycroft and I damn well am not letting him get away from me now."

Mycroft sighed, "Well if you're certain that you will take care of him then you have my blessing. Of course, Mummy will expect you to come and visit in the near future. "

"Why do I have an ominous feeling about that?" John said, shifting his weight

"No need to worry about it, "Mycroft smiled, "Mummy is a lot better than Sherlock and I."

"Well that's good," John laughed.

"Yes, well please give Sherlock my best, I have to go overseas for a bit, something with the French government, they're always causing trouble. I'll see you around, I'm sure." With that Mycroft tipped his head towards John, turning around to leave.

John re-entered the hospital room, Sherlock still out cold thanks to the morphine. John would have a few peaceful hours until Sherlock woke again and demanded to be off the morphine. John picked up the book Marcy, one of the nurses he had worked with, had brought him. As he read about the detective, some woman named Scarpetta that worked in a mortuary; he compared her to Sherlock and found she fell extremely short. He marked the page and put the book down; glancing over at Sherlock's peaceful, sleeping form. His life was definitely more interesting than a novel nowadays.

* * *

_Six Months Later_

"So you and Sherlock run around all day and play detectives? Do either of you get paid?"

"Mrs Holmes, we don't really get paid for it, though I've talked to Greg about it," John answered Mummy, looking pointedly at Greg who sat across the table from him. "He says the supervisors aren't on board with it, it's a problem above his head. I do work a bit at Bart's though."

"Please John, do call me Mummy, I'm sure you'll be a son-in-law soon, as will you Gregory," Mummy said down the table, looking at the two men in turn. "I swear if you boys aren't married in the near future I'm changing my will and giving all the money to the housekeepers."

Greg was the only one who seemed to look shocked at the information, Mycroft and Sherlock kept on eating and John had been warned of Mummy's empty threats. "Right Mummy," Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft as the brothers shared a private smile, "I do seem to remember hearing that when I was oh, about four."

"Oh yes," added Mycroft, "wasn't that the time we almost burnt down the library?"

Mummy tried her best to look sternly at the two boys but John and Greg had caught one another's eye and had burst out in loud guffaws at the picture of four-year old Sherlock and eleven-year old Mycroft trying their damnedest to keep fire from spreading in a library.

The chef had taken the break in conversation to send the butlers out to take the plates and place desserts. Upon hearing of Mycroft's visit he had planned a chocolate cake for dessert, Mycroft's favourite.

"Chocolate cake? Did Daniel remember it was my favourite?" Mycroft asked as he doled himself a slice almost twice the size of everyone else's.

"Better get used to baking Lestrade," Sherlock said between bites of his normal-sized serving of cake. "Mycroft could eat cake for every meal and never get satisfied."

"Good thing I come from a line of French chefs. They were a bit upset when I wanted to be a policeman. Luckily my younger brother George wanted to be a chef."

"You can bake?" Mycroft asked, eyes wide, causing even Mummy to cough into her goblet of wine.

Greg patted Mycroft's hand lightly, smiling at the man. "Yes, so next time you leave for a long time I'll just leave a chocolate cake with Holmes pinned onto it at your private concourse, yeah? I'd say I'd show up holding it, but judging by the way you're drooling over that icing I don't think I'd want to get between you."

"I do not appreciate that Gregory; I merely meant that perhaps you could bring a cookie or two over to my office when you stop in for a visit."

"Oh John, why won't  _you_ bring me a  _cookie_ to the next crime scene?" Sherlock mocked, looking at John with fake, sad eyes.

John snorted, "I don't think you want my cookies Sherlock, the best I could do is a pack from Tesco."

"That's not good enough John, perhaps I will have to give you lessons. You see," Sherlock continued at the shock on everyone but Mummy's faces, "while Mycroft was shoving cake into his fat gob I was learning in the kitchen with Daniel. Taught me quite a bit of cooking too."

"Is there anything you can't do Sherlock?" John asked, in awe of the man next to him.

"Whistle," Sherlock replied, frowning.

"He's bloody awful at it, spit on me a whole summer trying to do it," Mycroft added.

"I did not!" Sherlock said angrily.

Mycroft peered at Sherlock over the top of his wine glass. "Why else did you think I started carrying the umbrella with me? I was terrified you would try it again."

The table erupted in laughter as Sherlock sulked in his chair, pointedly ignoring his brother. "Come now John, I'll show you the veranda while these buffoons laugh at their own ridiculous jokes."

"I haven't finished my dessert Sherlock," countered John, pleading for help with his eyes.

"More for my brother then, come now John," insisted Sherlock, tugging on John's arm.

"Alright, alright Sherlock, you don't have to manhandle me, I am capable of standing up on my own."

Sherlock let go of John's arm and waited for the man to follow him out of the dining room.

"Well Mummy, it appears you may have gotten you wish sooner than imagined," Mycroft vocalised, looking at his mother. "If I'm correct, and you know I usually am, my dear brother is about to propose to John."

Mummy smiled, inclining her head towards her older son. "I do hope the good doctor says yes. He's done so much for Sherlock and neither of them realise it. I thought perhaps Sherlock would never find love, I know how he is."

"As did I," Mycroft supplied, looking off in the direction of the veranda. "I thought the whole kidnapping business might put John off from Sherlock, but in fact I think it may have brought them closer."

"Mycroft, Sherlock took a bullet for John, that usually means something to a person," Greg said. "I mean, I put myself in dangerous situations every day, but there's only two people I'd put myself in that kind of danger for, you and my da."

Mycroft stared at Lestrade, love written on his face and for a moment Mummy thought Mycroft might even propose right then and there. Instead, Mycroft pulled Greg towards him and kissed him softly before pulling away and whispering the first 'I love you' that he had ever said in his life.

Greg blinked twice, wondering if at first if he had made it up, but a glance at Mycroft's face showed all the insecurities of being the first to say such a powerful sentence. "I love you too Mycroft, always will."

Out on the veranda Sherlock was standing next to John, an arm around the other man's waist. "I used to come out here all the time when I was young to watch the stars. I love making my own shapes in the stars and finding the different zodiacs," Sherlock admitted quietly.

"I loved astronomy when I was younger, mum and da got me a telescope for my sixth birthday. I went out almost every night to use it."

Sherlock let his head rest on John's, smiling in the shorter man's hair. "Perhaps we could get one for Baker Street; you never know when it could come in handy on a case."

"So you really like the flat? I know it's not much, especially compared to here, but it's home for me."

"I'd honestly rather be there than anywhere else, simply because you're there John." Sherlock felt in his suit pocket for the small, velvet box, fingers shaking slightly with nervousness.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked, pulling away from the embrace to look at Sherlock and press the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"Yes, I'm fine, quite fine," Sherlock answered quickly. "Look John, there's something I would like to talk to you about."

John crossed his arms over his chest and took a step back, suddenly worried about where the conversation was heading. "Yeah, what's that?"

Sherlock took in a large gulp of air, mentally willing his body to get itself together. "John, we've been together for a long time now and I'm not planning on going anywhere. I calculated the next best line of movement for us and came to the same conclusion time and time again." Sherlock dropped to one knee, sliding the box out of his pocket and flipped it open, revealing a thick silver band. "John Hamish Watson, will you do the honour of marrying me?"

John stared for a few seconds at the box and Sherlock, not quite sure if perhaps he was dreaming before he was saying yes repeatedly and pulling Sherlock in for a kiss.

Sherlock pressed John against the railing of the veranda, wrapping an arm around John and deepening the kiss, adding the taste of John at this marker in their life to his memory forever, never wanting to forget it.

The two men finally broke away from one another, panting and trying to catch their breath. "Perhaps we should go tell Mummy and the others?" John asked, mostly wanting to stay out there and snog Sherlock senseless.

"Perhaps," was Sherlock's reply as he ducked in for one final small kiss before taking John by the hand and pulling him back towards the dining room.

"Enjoy the veranda?" asked Mycroft cheekily as the two men returned, the blush heating John's cheeks enough to answer any questions he might have had. Mycroft studied his brother and was surprised to see Sherlock looking more alive than he had ever seen him, a spark burning brightly in his eyes.

"Yes, yes we did," John murmured. "He proposed."

"Oh, good," Mummy cheered, rising from her chair to engulf her son and John in hugs. "I told you, you'd be my son-in-law soon enough. Oh Sherlock, I'm so happy for you."

Mummy let go of the two men and Mycroft and Greg shook their hands, Mycroft pulling Sherlock into a hug. "You take care of him John," smiled Mycroft, shaking John's hand again.

"I've done a pretty good job so far," replied John, looking at the healthy man next to him, the only reminder of the warehouse incident a scar on Sherlock's chest that John took extra time to kiss when they made love.

"That you have, I thank you."

"He says I saved him, and he really did save me, I'd say we were pretty even."

* * *

And they were, even though they saved one another many more times, which when you considered their job was quite often. Lestrade and Mycroft eventually did get married, Mycroft proposing two weeks after Sherlock and John's engagement. Sherlock and John finally got proper job titles, and were paid and had their own office eventually at the Yard, John's capabilities at keeping Sherlock a bit more personable helping their case. Every holiday was spent at the Holmes mansion which became Mycroft and Lestrade's after Mummy passed. Sherlock and John never left Baker Street. You could say they had a good life, but Sherlock knew how wonderful life was, since John entered his world.


End file.
